


Starlight on the Empty Horizon

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blind Keith, Body Modification, Eventual Smut, Exhibitionism, Galra Keith, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hurt/Comfort, I think. I do not know the "eventual" criteria, M/M, Mind Meld, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Torture, Voltron General Big Bang 2017, background shallura - Freeform, past/mentioned shatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 156,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: Galra (n): a vespertilian-feline hybrid species credited with the ongoing reign of the galaxies.See: monsterRelated terms:Zarkon (n): the ruler of the Galran Empire.Read: That one asshole.Half-breed (n): a being of half-Galran and half-foreign descent known for a trend in co-dominant genes, providing the half-breed with the ability to control the prevalence of Galran phenotypes.Read: Toys of a vicious darkness; the playthings of mad scientists; breeding experiments to save a dying, fragile race. Conditioned into submission through twisted methods, brought to their knees until they only utter the Empire's name through broken lips, marked from the beginning for who they are and what they will become: servants and slaves, or bodies, if they're lucky.Keith would know. He's seen the prisons. He doesn't want to go back.And yet here he is: trapped, tortured, and terrified.The mission is over; they messed up.At least he has Lance, right?





	1. Night One

**Author's Note:**

> So... This is the fic I've been writing for the past 6 months. That being said, this was started before S2 and finished before S3. Even then, there were parts of S1 I took liberties with, so there's that. We ignore canon like men in this house.
> 
> More specific tags/warnings will be in end notes for each chapter.

 

 

“ _...They will all die.”_

“ _That is what soldiers do, Captain.”_

\- _Wonder Woman_ (2017)

 

Despite their best efforts, desperate calls and frantic movements, they have _failed_ , the taste of it bitter and coppery on Keith's tongue as blood trickles across his cheek.

Gasping, Keith feels the sting of a blade against the curve of his throat, just underneath the edge of his helmet, and he dares not swallow or even breathe harder for fear of the knife cutting skin. He manages a glance in Lance's direction, and even Keith knows he's grasping at straws when Lance looks wearily up at him, blood a thin line from his lip, and almost imperceptibly shakes his head. Keith feels his body go cold.

The communication didn't go through. They're stuck out here, captured by the Galra for the spies that they are, and their team has no clue how to get to them.

It was supposed to be a quick mission: get in, sabotage the controls, plant the bug, get out. Keith feels Red scream in outrage against his consciousness, and then she gets quieter and quieter as she's subdued by the Galra, their tech formidable enough to put Red out of commission when she doesn't have a pilot.

The ice in his veins turns to rage, but there's nothing he can do, as he's restrained, arms locked in place behind his back, and roughly shoved forward, stumbling into a slow walk. Something presses against his back—a gun, he presumes—and for the first time since the start of the mission, Keith is _afraid_.

For the first time, he feels desolate. There's nothing left to do, as his bayard is stripped from him, and they manhandle Keith's helmet off, painfully snagging against the cut on his forehead, and shove him and Lance into a dirty cell. As soon as they're inside, the bars light up a dim purple. Keith contemplates pushing against them, to see exactly what type of pain it inflicts, but there's a chance he's electrocuted and killed right off the bat, so he reigns in against the red fogging his vision and thoughts, and instead lands heavily on the wooden bench against the wall.

On the floor, Lance is hugging his knees to his chest, running a hand over his right leg as if searching for injuries. His hair is wild, and his eyes wilder, as he looks up at Keith in a panic, and whimpers out the most pitiful noise Keith's ever heard.

“It will... be okay,” Keith chokes out, but he can't meet Lance's eyes when he says it. It's been almost three years now, and despite the occasional persisting argument, Lance knows him well enough to realize he's blatantly lying. He hears Lance's breath hitch in a sob, because there's not much else to do at this point except mourn the lives they could have had.

The Galra will use them as bait, at first. They'll probably be tortured for information, too, and Keith feels a shudder wrack down his spine at that thought. And when Voltron doesn't show, doesn't fall for the trap, Keith and Lance are doing to die.

That was the promise.

Keith remembers the conversation well. It will be the last time he spoke to Shiro, after all, and he's memorized the lines of the black paladin's face far too well by now. A fleeting thought wonders how many more will be added when Shiro hears about his death. His gut clenches, twisting into something ugly and uncomfortable, at the thought that maybe there will be none at all—that Shiro doesn't care. That he will be forgotten.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tomorrow they go on the mission. Keith can't convince his mind to settle.

“So,” Lance hums, stray fingers brushing over one of Keith's knives. There's at least six of them scattered across the table, in various degrees of sharpened and shined. It's a habit Keith's picked up over the years, as a way of trying to ease some of the tension and nerves from his body. “Just us, huh?”

“You're going to hurt yourself,” Keith scolds, pointing the blade currently in his hand in Lance's direction.

“I'll be fine,” Lance insists, and picks up one of the weapons, testing the weight in his hand. “Why, Keith, are you worried about me?”

Keith huffs. He contemplates ignoring Lance, in favor of focusing entirely on the dark shine of metal cooling the skin of his palm. But then he sighs out a soft, “Yeah. I am.” He doesn't need to say it, he knows; Lance can read him like a book. But still—sometimes the words feel like a weight on his heart until he finally admits them.

Lance sobers, sensing the shift in Keith's tone, with full knowledge that Keith does not admit his cares lightly. The teasing ends. “This is... This is pretty big, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Keith replies. He spares a glance up at the blue paladin, toying with one of the smaller daggers Keith often takes on diplomatic missions, just in case. It's easy to hide and a quick draw, though it dulls easily, and— “Lance.”

“Ow! Fuck.”

“I told you,” Keith huffs, and squints at Lance as he pops his finger into his mouth to suck on the wound.

He pulls his finger out with a wet noise, and then peers down. “Oh, hell, I'm not even bleeding.”

Keith snorts at him, but he feels his heart clench in his chest, a soft stutter as he watches Lance, this infuriating mix of soft and confrontational and ever-changing. Keith tears his gaze away, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You're lucky I didn't get to that one yet.”

Lance sets the knife back on the table. “Which ones have you done? I live for danger.”

“Stop touching my stuff before you seriously do hurt yourself,” Keith says, though without malice. “We'll be in enough danger tomorrow.”

“Ugh, such a downer,” Lance complains, groaning and flopping dramatically across the table. The blades shudder from the impact, and Keith jolts forward for a heartbeat, ready to lunge for any knives straying too close to Lance.

“Jesus, be careful,” Keith hisses.

“Just trying to get a smile out of you,” Lance hums into his elbow.

“I'm not sure if now's the time,” Keith says, and for some reason, it sounds like an admission.

“Are you actually nervous?” Lance asks, lifting his head and resting his chin on his arms. His head is tilt curiously in Keith's direction, blue eyes wide and unassuming.

Keith gives a halfhearted shrug. His hands still on the blade, but he feels the tremor in his fingers: an anxious energy. “This is huge. This could be a tipping point in the war. We're—it's all on us, Lance. And if we fail—I... I don't even want to th-hink about what happens if we fuck this up.”

Galra ships, knives, chains... Too much to imagine. Except Keith doesn't have to.

“We won't,” Lance assures, and gives Keith a lopsided grin. “We make a good team.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Keith grumbles. “Let it go. That was years ago.”

“Nope,” Lance says, popping the 'p.' “It's great material. Good enough to put on movie posters.”

Keith bites his lip to keep from smiling, because he won't give into Lance that easily. “You're such a dork.”

“You're trying not to smile!” Lance accuses, lifting his head to flail dramatically in Keith's direction. “Stop it! You know you want to.”

Keith huffs, and turns his head away. He lets the smallest of grins tug at the corner of his mouth before he goes back to working on the knife in his hands. When he glances up at Lance, the asshole has a self-satisfied smirk gracing his features. Keith has to stop himself from getting trapped in the untamed happiness of the expression. It makes Lance's entire face light up.

“What about you?” Keith asks, switching to another knife. “Are you nervous? Don't touch this.”

Lance blatantly disobeys, immediately reaching for the blade Keith just set down and very gingerly tapping his finger against the point as he lets out a thoughtful hum. “I guess, yeah. High-strung is probably a better word.”

“Are you lying?” Keith asks absently, and then his gaze flicks over to Lance and settles.

Lance meets his eyes, sends him a half-grin, and Keith huffs as he reads the truth in them, worried and anxious but excited. “Okay, fine.”

“That's still pretty creepy,” Lance admits, leaning back in his chair as he fiddles with the weapon in his hands. “How do I get spooky truth sight?”

“People are easy to read when they lie.”

“Says the most socially inept member of the team.”

Keith snorts and shrugs.

“Same here,” Keith finally says, looking back down at his work. “About being high-strung.” And then: “You're gonna hurt yourself, and then you're gonna bitch about it, so put the knife down.”

“I will not!” Lance protests, and then lets out a hiss. “Oh fuck, I am bleeding this time.”

“You never listen, you little shit,” Keith grumbles.

Lance pops his finger in his mouth again, and then looks up with a hurt expression.

Keith outright laughs at the pitiful pout Lance manages around his finger, and when he sees Keith's reaction, a grin splits his expression into open mirth.

“Teach me how to use one of these,” Lance suddenly says, when he's done sucking on his finger to stop the bleeding. “Let's work off some of this nervous energy.”

“You really must be worried if you're volunteering to train,” Keith teases, but he's already complying to Lance's request, setting down the knife he's working on in favor of reaching for two of the three remaining dull ones.

“Shut up,” Lance laughs through the words. “These are cool. I'm interested... And yeah, I'm kinda spooked about this whole thing. It's a lot of pressure, and I definitely need the workout so I'm tired enough to fall asleep tonight.”

Keith shrugs with one shoulder, half a response. “Sounds good. Training deck in ten?”

“Done,” Lance hums, and pulls himself out of the chair.

Keith would like to say he didn't watch Lance leave, but then he'd be lying to himself. It's been a while since he stopped doing that, pretending his gaze never lingers. It wasn't worth it when the fall was so inevitable.

 

 

 

“Shift your weight back,” Keith instructs, circling Lance as the blue paladin holds a pose. He stopped whining about not being allowed to play with the knife a few minutes ago when Keith finally convinced him it'd be better to warm up with some hand-to-hand combat. “Stance lower. Shoulders back. Tuck your elbows in.” On the last one, Keith nudges Lance's arm into place.

Keith leans back, looks an appraising eye over Lance's form. He moves in front of the other, reaches out and pushes on Lance's shoulder, trying to topple him, but Lance holds his ground, planted well enough to push back without breaking position. “Okay,” Keith hums, pulling back. He stretches his arms one last time before dropping into a pose mirroring Lance. “This will do, I suppose.”

“Hey, hey, this is pretty good,” Lance protests, moving his arms out of position to crack his knuckles. Keith glares until he settles back into place. “Okay. Ready.”

Keith holds his palms out to Lance—sans his usual gloves, but he has a wrap around each, to help lessen the impact. “Right, left, right,” Keith orders, and lifts his hands in turn to imply which hit should land on which hand. Lance does a quick copy of the jabs without putting any power behind them, and Keith nods. “Like that, but put your body into it.”

“I know, I know,” Lance huffs good-naturedly. This isn't the first time they've done this, using training to blow off steam or settle nerves before a battle, but Lance lets Keith mentor him with the same instructions as before anyway. It soothes Keith: the meticulous attention to the details of fighting until reaction and motion is perfect. For Lance, who is always overeager and ready to jump into learning new things, it's a far greater sacrifice to remain patient with the repetitiveness of Keith's routine workouts.

Keith is forever grateful for the fact their teamwork has developed enough that Lance lets him have this. When they first became paladins, they fought constantly, and now... Now Keith thinks it's safe to say they're friends. They argue, they disagree, they each have their bad days, but they've also adapted to each other. It's a relationship that, even though Keith always wants more, is _enough_. He's happy with this.

Lance throws the first punch.

The impact is jarring at first, but Keith braces himself against it, and then lets the next hit roll with him, drawing his hand back with the hit to lessen the force. The third lands unevenly in Keith's palm, and he grunts in pain when his wrist protests.

“Sorry,” Lance gasps. “I'm trying.”

“Try harder,” Keith huffs, rolling his wrist. “Move your shoulders and hips more. Start in your legs.”

Lance snorts, but they both settle back into position. Right, left, right—three solid hits, though they could be harder. Keith finds his gaze drawn to the lean of Lance's muscles, shoulders bared by the loose tank top. He has to remind himself that he's supposed to be looking for flaws in Lance's form, and not appreciating the soft gleam of sweat on Lance's skin. They've both filled out in the past three years: layers of strength built up by Shiro and Allura's rigorous training, not to mention the general strain of fighting, and while Lance has never taken the workouts quite as seriously due to his role in combat, there's definitely power built into his limbs.

If only he knew how to goddamn use it.

“Again.”

Right. Good. Left. Weak. Right. Acceptable, but could be better. A lot better.

“You need to learn to switch the movement in your body when you switch hands. Your left is weak, and then it fucks up the last one.”

Lance scowls. “How?”

“Roll your hips.”

Lance breaks form almost completely to do a teasing body roll, and Keith would have facepalmed if he wasn't caught off-guard, staring. “Really,” he deadpans, and Lance laughs.

Keith's brow furrows. “That dance—the one you were trying to teach me a couple weeks ago.”

“We tried a lot of dances. You suck at almost all of them,” Lance snarks.

“Asshole,” Keith huffs, crossing his arms. “The Spanish one.”

“Keith, I speak Spanish. You could technically argue that all the dances I know are Spanish to some degree or another.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Keith huffs, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. He lunges at Lance, and Lance stumbles from the sudden movement as Keith latches onto his hands, settles one over his own hip and keeps hold of the other.

While Lance is still recovering, Keith settles his palm on Lance's bare shoulder, feels the heat of him under his fingertips and tries to fight the flush threatening his body. This was a mistake. It was bad enough two weeks ago—and now... But Keith steps back, pulling Lance with him, and Lance mirrors his footwork.

Keith's an awkward lead, especially when he's playing the “girl's” part of the dance, but Lance falls into step, taking over and performing the dance far more professionally than Keith will ever manage. “Oh,” Lance says, noting the sway of his hips as he moves. “This is easy, then,” Lance hums. “How come you have such a hard time dancing this, if it's the same?”

Keith ducks his head. “Because dancing is too showy.”

Lance laughs, and then there's a pressure at Keith's hip, guiding him, and he's being spun out, then drawn back. The caress of Lance's hand at his hip, the light in his eyes, the warmth of his palm against Keith's.

Lance's laughter deepens at the disgruntled expression on Keith's face, while Keith prays the hammering of heart isn't audible. He sticks his tongue out at Lance and ducks away, pulling his hand out of Lance's. “Okay, back to work,” he orders.

Lance grumbles about something, but drops into the correct stance almost instantly this time. Keith tries to still the pounding against his ribcage, the fire in his veins, and has to remind himself: it doesn't mean anything. There's nothing between them, not yet. Lance isn't his, and that may never be true.

Right, left, right.

“Good. Again.”

“Nice,” Lance grins. Keith melts.

Right, left, right.

“Again.”

Right. Left. Right.

“Let's move on.”

One of them has to, at least.

 

 

 

“If something happens...” Keith begins, the weight of his armor on his back both a comfort and foreboding reminder.

“If something happens, we do what's best for Voltron,” Shiro says, resting his human hand on Keith's shoulder. Shiro is ever the leader, Keith knows—but he's also seen Shiro at his worst, broken from the nightmares and memories, and Keith also knows that Shiro _loves_. They all do. They all care too deeply.

“I just—” Keith blurts, and then shifts so Shiro's hand falls away. “I don't—If this goes wrong, I want you to promise you won't come looking for us. Promise me, Shiro. We can't keep throwing ourselves into death traps when one of us gets lost on a mission. There have been other paladins before and there can be more to follow. Save the lions, but don't worry about us. This is too risky.”

Shiro looks at him with a half-questioning gaze, and perhaps it's pity that Keith reads in his expression, but he's not sure. It's sad, all the same, serious and weary. Shiro opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly Lance is behind Keith, throwing an arm around him. “Don't worry about it, Buddy. We'll make it out, and then be rewarded with hero's medals.”

Keith allows himself a moment to lean against Lance, and Lance pulls Keith against him for a moment before releasing him. They both need the comfort, right now, but then Keith glares at him, snorting, “From who?”

“The beautiful Allura, of course,” Lance grins, unabashed. He sends Shiro a mock salute before sauntering off towards Blue's hangar.

Keith and Shiro both roll their eyes, but as Keith turns to go to Red, Shiro catches his wrist. “I promise,” he says in a low voice, almost cracking. Keith sees the truth is his gaze and nods, and Shiro releases him. The look they share is goodbye.

 

 

 

Red thrums to life around Keith, the pulse of her energy matching the beat of his heart. He can feel Blue's animated purr from somewhere else in the castle, and Lance's face flickers to life over the comms. “Ready?”

“Let's go,” Keith says, and drives Red forward. In the next breath, they're both out in the vastness of space, encompassed by stars.

“Opening the wormhole in 2 ticks,” Allura's voice floats over the comms. “Pidge uploaded the maps to Red's conscious. Remember: get in, and get out. Don't get caught up in doing more damage than necessary.”

“Got it,” Keith replies, and Lance gives his own affirmation.

And then they're being drawn in by the swirl of a wormhole, and the universe tilts.

 

 

 

“Here,” Keith says, stealing a glance around a corner of the ship's hallway. Red is a constant thrum in his bones, ever-present and strengthening. She feeds a makeshift map of the ship that they had managed to create from former prisoners' memories to his mind. The next hallway over is the main control room, and once they're in there, they'll be good to go.

Next to him, Lance is a reassuring pressure on his shoulder. “Anything?” he whispers, inquiring about Keith's quick scan of the hallway.

“Empty,” Keith says. “But we haven't seen a patrol go by, and this is probably heavily guarded. We should wait until they've passed.”

“We might not get another chance,” Lance points out. “They'll notice the Lions eventually.”

Keith glances over at him, and then over his shoulder again at the hallway. He worries his lip. Normally, he's the rash one, but this is important, for one, and the ship is so achingly familiar that the sick feeling he had when he spoke with Shiro earlier still hasn't let his stomach settle. Finally, he nods. “Let's go.”

Keith sprints for the door, Lance on his heels. They pause at the doorway for a moment while Lance digs through the bag they brought. He removes a piece of altered Altean tech, courtesy of Pidge, and mounts it next to the keypad lock. After fiddling with it for a moment, he frowns. “It doesn't match up—” He hisses. “The wire patterns are different. They must have changed the locks before we got here.”

“Shit,” Keith growls, and then: “Move.” He stabs his bayard in the crack between the sliding doors, throwing his body weight against it to shove it further. “Get ready,” he hisses, and Lance raises his gun. Keith throws his weight to the side, arms straining as he uses his sword like a crowbar to pry the doors open. Lance fires twice through the crack, and Keith hears muffled cries on the other side, before he plants a foot against the opposite door and pushes while he pulls hard with his bayard at the same time.

The doors finally give, emitting a faint crackling noise, and Keith falls against the wall with the sudden slack.

Still wary, he follows Lance into the room, and keeps glancing over his shoulder at the open doors. Lance settles down at the control panel, toeing the body of a Galra soldier out of the way with his boot, and scrounges through the bag slung over his shoulder. Keith gives up his paranoid glances between Lance and the doors, and goes to slide the doors closed. Through the crack between them, Keith crouches and waits, peering out while he keeps watch.

He hears Lance _clink_ and _clank_ as he works on the controls, removing plating and planting the bug that should get Voltron access to all of the plans and maps loaded into this ship. There's a telltale _snip-snip_ when Lance cuts a certain wire, replacing it with a virus-infected piece that should go unnoticed even when the Galra repair the ship and control panel. They're going to have to trash it when they leave in order to cover up the bodies—make it look like their intent was to put the ship out of commission completely, that something went wrong, and they had to make an escape.

Lance grunts, and Keith glances over. “It's fine,” Lance says, because he can feel the question on Keith's tongue even while his head is buried in the control panel. Something clicks loudly, and Lance hisses in pain, but Keith takes him at his word, and turns back around. In the distance, he hears the pound of boots against the floor, a countdown clock until they have to hide or bolt.

He doesn't bother telling Lance to hurry, because Lance already knows, and doing so would only aggravate the blue paladin and probably cause a screw-up. So Keith presses his lips in a thin line, trepidation and the tingle of an impending fight settling over him.

“Done!” Lance cries, voice still low because by now, surely he can hear the footsteps too. “Keith!”

Keith nods, and spins away from the door, rushing at the control panel and swiping over the top with his bayard. He avoids the vital wires and connections underneath, but does as much damage as he can above, to make it look like the objective in their mission.

He feels Lance stiffen next to him, hovering close, and Keith whirls just as someone knocks on the door. They slide, barely, and whoever is on the other side must notice they're broken, because suddenly they bash inwards, cracked and bent as they fall to the floor.

The Galra soldier takes a split second to register the scene, and in that split second, Lance shoots the keypad on the wall next to him, sending out an array of sparks as it fries. The Galra dives away, and Keith and Lance sprint for the door, Keith spinning on his heel to slash at the arm the soldier reaches for them when they pass. There's a cry of pain, but Keith doesn't register much as he turns to follow Lance, pounding after him back towards the lions.

Red starts feeding him images of the map again, and she hums approvingly when she realizes Keith's on his way back. Then a block slams against his brain as her sudden warning overtakes his mind. Keith stops short before he even sees what's in front of him.

Lance stumbles forward a bit. Freezes a few paces away, staring at the army of Galra soldiers before them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance reach for the emergency communication module, but the Galra are on them before he has a chance to set it off.

They try their best, but even when Lance sets off a shockwave using another one of Pidge's inventions that disables all of the Galra laser weapons, the sheer numbers overwhelm them. They fight fiercely, with Keith's sword flashing, tearing into the monsters, while he and Lance are backed into a corner. The close combat doesn't favor Lance, but he tries his best to cover from behind. When Keith looks up from a body to see a Galra soldier with Lance in a choke hold, a thick blade pressed to his temple, Keith's bayard clatters to the ground before he ever realizes what's happening.

 

 

 

“You were right,” Lance sniffles. He's leaning against the wall of the cell, hasn't moved since they were captured. “When you were talking with Shiro. You were right to be worried. We fucked up, Keith. I fucked up.”

“It's not your fault,” Keith assures, and he looks towards Lance, because he believes it, this time. Lance has his face buried in his knees, and Keith rises from the hard bench to crouch in front of him. He's careful when he pulls Lance's head up to look at him, since he's not sure where his injuries are, and forces Lance to meet his gaze. “It's not your fault, you hear me?”

Slowly, Lance nods. Keith brushes some of the hair out of his eyes. “We'll be okay.”

“You're still lying.”

“I'm being hopeful.”

Lance snorts. “That's a first.”

Lance really looks at him then, blue gaze piercing. It's cold and scared and _hopeless_. “We're going to die, here, Keith,” he whispers, and Keith expects his voice to crack because Lance has never been able to be serious, but it holds steady, strong and so, so sure about the fatal end of their journey.

And Keith doesn't have anything to say to him, because when he opens his mouth, the words don't come. There's nothing he can do or say or even hope that will help them now. They're trapped and scared and regardless of however long they hold out, this Galra ship will be their deathbed. Lance's lip quivers, and Keith can only stare back. In a voiceless whisper, he manages, “I'm sorry.”

Keith falls back, sitting on the floor in front of Lance instead of crouching, and buries his face in his hands. He doesn't cry, but he feels the burn of tears against the back of his eyelids for a moment before he runs his hands through his hair, movements unsteady. “I'm sorry, Lance—” and then his voice cracks into a sob of some sort, even though there's no actual tears. The choked noise makes its way through his body, leaving him numb. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

Lance reaches a hand out to rest against Keith's leg, but Keith ignores it in favor of shaking while he repeats his hushed mantra. Eventually, Keith's voice gives out, the words becoming soundless while the air still passes over his lips in short gasps. Lance uncurls himself, shuffles to one of the benches, and lies down, hugging his arms to his chest.

Perhaps hours later, Keith hears Lance's whisper over his shoulder, and a light touch alerts him to his proximity. He's lost in a tangle of memories, nightmares from his past of ropes and whips and the scrape of metal. He remembers the cries and the sobs, the scars left on his body that he covers up with years of practiced control. It all blurs together into fuzzy images of pain and fear and hopelessness. The similarities to their situation now are so uncanny that Keith can't help but feel the tug of panic in his heart, feel his body go weak... but Lance snaps him out of it, reaching to pull Keith up.

Keith's gaze snaps to him, and Lance opens his mouth to ask, but the words die on his tongue. Keith shakes his head vigorously, and pulls himself out of Lance's grasp. He tries to say “thanks,” but his voice peters out weakly in his throat. He goes and lays down, facing the wall, and Lance follows suit on the other bench.

“Goodnight,” he calls softly, but Keith only hears the strain to keep his voice steady.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: canon-typical violence, some mentions of blood, mentions of death, a narrowly dodged panic attack, but nothing too heavy
> 
> Alright.  
> I... Wow. Now that I'm here I don't know what to say. So time to guSH ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE  
> Thank you so so so much to Fluffy for making a banner for me and thank you to Rach and Bobbo for letting them use your art for this gorgeous thing. I. I am blown away, honestly, by your kindness. Thanks to Boom for being willing but late to the party. (That being said, fair warning: something came up with my partner, so there is not art for this fic, but there is fic. Much fic.) Thanks to Fluff and Pev for helping me beta and thanks to the Apartment and OG spitty buttons chat for being my hype squad through this entire thing. Thanks to the gen bb discord for... starting this, really. For teaching me what it means to be part of a fandom, and inspiring me beyond what I ever thought I'd accomplish.
> 
> At the very end of this fic there will probably be an excessively long author's note about inspirations and allusions in this fic, as well as more acknowledgements and maybe a fucking essay. Because lbr I could write an essay off this shit I am so invested.


	2. Night Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha hi i don't know what i'm doing

“ _The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy who loves you.”_

\- _The Book Thief_ by Markus Zusak

 

“Did you ever think about what it would be like to go back after we win?” Lance asks. He's on the floor, leaning against the wall, one leg propped close to his chest while the other sprawls out before him. Keith notices he's been favoring that one, and wonders if he hurt it in the fight.

It's been three days since they were put in the cell, and between the two of them, they've gone over every emotion possible in the stage of grieving: anger, sorrow, nostalgia, apathy, bitterness, and far too many tears than either of them would admit to letting the other see. Because that's what they're doing. Grieving. For themselves, and for each other.

The three days in a Galra prison has treated Keith far better than Lance—after all, his anatomy is far better suited for the dim and dark, and his time in the desert had reinforced his ability to live off the barest necessities, so it doesn't take long for his stomach to remember how to survive on meager rations. Lance lets out a weak cough while he waits for a reply.

“Not really, no,” Keith answers softly. He looks Lance over, as the other tilts his head back on the wall, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps. Before Keith can ask if he's okay, Lance carries on.

“I have,” he says after a deep breath. “I thought about a lot. I thought about going back home to a hero's welcome and my mom's hugs. I wondered if the Garrison would officially graduate me as fighter class, because I'd have obviously earned it after saving the world. I dreamed about what it would be like to be normal again.” The words are ragged and sometimes cut off by intakes of breath, and Keith feels worry tighten in his chest.

“Normal doesn't happen,” Keith mutters, looking away from Lance to focus on an indeterminate spot on the floor. Images flash through his head, dull and blurry from weakness and torture, but they bring with them a sharp ghost pain and gasp for breath anyway. “O-once you go through something like that. Once you've seen what we've seen, there's nothing that can compare. No one back... home knows. No one understands. They haven't been through what you have. They don't know what's out there, not the wonders nor the vastness nor the horrors and the fear and p-pain and torture and knives and-and whips and—” Keith cuts off in a whimper.

He tries to still the frantic _pit-pat_ of his heart against his ribs. Tries to regain control of his breathing. It's this place—the cloying air and the dark and the never-ending echo of footsteps in the distance. It toys with him, and he has to constantly pull himself back from that terrifying mental precipice. He's done it before, Keith tells himself, hundreds of times. He can do it just once more...

When he looks back, Lance is staring at him, wide-eyed and half-crazed for the same reasons Keith is fighting to remain sane. Lance opens his mouth to speak, but a cough rattles his body, and he winces, reaching down to rub gingerly at his leg.

Keith finally finds his voice, though he's still trying to temper the distress in his chest. “L-Lance,” he breathes. “Are... are you okay?” But it's then that Keith notices the dark stain on Lance's suit, creeping from underneath the armor, and he shoots up. In a flash, he's at Lance's side, firmly tugging off his boot, and sliding the armor in his thigh down past his knee.

Underneath the plating is a tear in the dark fabric, and underneath that, a tear in Lance. Keith involuntarily sucks in a breath, and stutters on the exhale, “ _Lance._ ” The wound is ragged, skin red and inflamed around the three jagged lines, and all Keith can process is _weak, hurt, sick_. “Shit, Lance,” Keith hisses, hands fluttering over the wound because he doesn't actually know what to do. “It's infected—you-you should have said something!”

Lance looks at him with a sad, halfhearted grin. “I didn't want to worry you. It was my fault, too...” He trails off to cough, and Keith realizes it's not just weak, but watery too. There's something in his lungs, infection spreading, filling until he drowns in the sickness— “Getting caught by a dumb soldier's claws _under_ my armor. You'd have to try to be that bad.”

Keith hisses Lance's name between his teeth again, maybe scolding, maybe panicked, probably both. He hovers nearby, but doesn't actually do anything constructive because he has no idea how to react, and he's wracking his brain to try and find a solution, even if only a temporary one.

When he hears the louder ebb of Galra patrols, he runs to the cell door, almost flinging himself into the crackling purple bars. “Please!” he shouts down the hallway, hoping they can hear him even though his voice is hoarse with fatigue. “Please! My friend is dying! Bring some quintessence, just a little— _please._ ”

“Keith,” Lance grunts from behind him, on the floor. “Keith, stop. It's no use.”

But Keith keeps going, edged on by the pause in the footsteps and their growing proximity. “I'll talk! I'll talk if you help him! Just let me treat him first, and then I'll talk.”

“Keith!” Lance hisses. “What are you doing?”

Keith's at his side again, tearing open Lance's suit further while he hears the approach of Galra soldiers. There seems to be some deliberation, and Keith looks over with a pleading expression. Finally, they chuck a tiny bottle of the amber substance through the bars. Keith snatches at it.

Leaning over the wound, Keith uncorks the bottle, muttering in perhaps warning to Lance, “I hope quintessence works better on humans.” Lance seems to hum with questions, or perhaps anger, but he appears too weak to protest any further. Keith ignores his disapproving presence as he dips a finger into the bottle, the liquid staining his skin purple. He frowns for only a second before he lets a drop fall onto the claw marks in Lance's leg.

Lance hisses, gritting his teeth against the pain, and the quintessence cracks and pops like a roaring fire against Lance's skin. But it's working—Keith can tell, as he smothers some more over Lance's skin—the red hue against tan cools, fading the spiderweb of dark veins surrounding torn flesh, and brings some color back into Lance's face.

Keith can feel his own body tingling, reacting to the quintessence, and by now he's too focused on Lance to will the transformation back in place. The raw energy starts taking over, the purple hue spreading from his finger up his arm, and creeping across his body the way night takes over the sky. There's a pricking feeling on his head, and suddenly his senses are sharper, and the scent of Lance's illness hits him harder.

Lance is looking at him with frightened, confused eyes, and Keith can't blame him. “You're—” he manages but Keith interrupts with a shake of his head and strict words.

“Drink some—very little. Keep it with you,” he says, capping the bottle and shoving it into Lance's hands. “Think of it like a shot of adrenaline, but end-all. Take as much as you need, but not all at once.”

“What—” Lance splutters, and reaches for him.

Keith turns away sharply before his fingers reach skin. He faces the guards, who are staring with surprised expressions that rival Lance's, which is pretty impressive. He feels Lance's gaze boring holes into his back, probably noticing the scars. “Yeah,” Keith says, raising his hands in surrender. “Yeah, go ahead. Let's get this over with. I'm sure you have great welcome back parties in this shithole.”

He contemplates licking the quintessence from his finger, riding out the thrill in a killing spree until he burns out. He might even be able to escape, he thinks. But he can't leave Lance. Not like this, not when he's seen what the Galra can do when they're bitter and need a scapegoat.

The soldiers seem to realize this too, before they can fall for the trap, and Keith holds his hands up higher. “Fine, look, I'll give it to him, okay?” He retreats from the bars, going to Lance and kneeling. “Lance—I know this... Fuck it. Can you just do me a favor here?” He holds his hand up, finger still painted gold with quintessence, and presses it gently against Lance's lips. “I need to prove to them I didn't take it before they'll take me. Just work with me here.”

Slowly, as if his brain is processing everything two steps behind, Lance nods, and tentatively flicks his tongue against his lips. His eyes flutter shut as the effect of the quintessence takes hold—whatever effect that is, because this is very different from the Galra response—and Lance pops Keith's finger into his mouth, claw and all, until he removes it, clean. Keith pins Lance with a stern gaze, and points at the bottle while he rises. “Don't waste th—” But the Galra soldiers have surged through the cell doors, and are pinning Keith's arms behind his back. “Lance,” he says, once last time as they drag him back, because while Keith knows it's not that last time the name will grace his lips, it might be the last time he gets to tell it to the other boy. “I'm sorry.”

Lance stares after him, distress and panic and confusion all fighting for attention in his blue gaze. Keith tries to memorize the last kind face he will ever see.

 

 

 

As much as Keith put on a nonchalant, brave front while in the cell, as soon as he's out of Lance's sight, his body shudders involuntarily. He doesn't resist the Galra soldiers, as their claws dig into his upper arms, pricking just above the edge of his armor. He speaks from experience when he says it's better not to resist. He could have chugged the bottle of quintessence earlier, maybe even managed to get through the electrified cage, but eventually it would have consumed him, and when he was finally subdued, the torture would be ten times worse than what they were planning for him now.

Though, if this was infinitely terrible, infinity times ten is still infinity.

Keith feels his ears flatten against the top of his head, unprocessed fear and instinct kicking in as they drag him through the halls. He had run from this. He had run to save himself from a lifetime under their prying hands and cold tools. And somehow, here he was again. Part of him wishes he had taken just a little bit of quintessence, if only to strengthen him enough to maybe survive the punishment for his escape.

He's brought into a room, the use for which he knows far too well. The soldiers leave, doors sliding behind him with a resolute click. Keith contemplates attempting to pry them open with his claws, but he's not sure where he would go, or how he would get Lance out, especially since he's wounded. The Galra would be able to track the smell of his infection, regardless of how good Keith's stealth techniques are.

Keith pales as he observes the room. He's pinned himself against the wall near the door, a completely unconscious move while he tries to stay as far away from the center as possible. There's a metal table to his right, complete with cuffs to restrain whatever poor fool (Keith) who gets on the wrong side of the Galra. There's a flash of memory as he recalls the hours he's spent on a very similar table, while they dig into his skin with sharpened blades, cutting in all the right places to make him bleed and cry out but never die.

Opposite, there's various chains and ropes against the wall, and Keith rubs at his wrists, the ghost touch of the rope still burning while he was whipped, skin torn from his back, and then slathered with quintessence until his body burned with new flesh, only to be stripped from his again with stinging lashes.

In the center is a well of the dreaded fluid itself—an ever-shifting pool of gold and sunlight—covered by a thick glass case. There's a large chain holding down the cover, so using that to his advantage is out of the question. Keith squeaks and skitters to the corner when the door opens with a _shhk_. It's so unlike him, this unbridled fear, because he thought he left that emotion behind. In comparison to the Galra torture chambers, facing anything else was easy.

But now that he's back, his body is weak, and between the flashbacks and the potential suffering in his future (he's only had a taste, he knows), everything is a threat, keeping him on edge while adrenaline sends tremors down his spine. He lets out a whine, though he didn't mean to, and the hooded figure that entered turns on him with a grin, Galra canines sharp against the dark of their mouth. Keith doesn't need to see the rest of their face to recognize Haggar.

“My, my,” she says, the rasp of her voice rough against Keith's brain. “I never got to play with you much before, when you were in the Empire, but now... Oh, now we're going to have some fun.” Keith swallows hard, and when Haggar takes a step forward, he hisses, another instinct reaction before he can gain control over his body. Haggar is unfazed, shuffling forward with a derogatory, "Down, boy."

Keith crouches lower, gaze frantic as he searches the room. He knows it's no use—there's nothing here he can use to escape, and there's no way he can beat Haggar, either. The Druid is far too powerful, especially with a pool of quintessence seconds away from being at her disposal. Yet he can't help it, the way his muscles spaz and jerk with each step Haggar takes, or the way his breath sounds against the hollow of his chest as he gasps for air, or the way his gut tells him to _run run run_.

When Haggar finally lifts a wrinkly, ominous hand, and Keith feels the dark magic curl around his throat, he forces his arms to stay by his side, even though he ends up digging his claws into his thighs to stop from moving. Struggling will only make it worse, he chants on repeat, but he knows Haggar can see the terror in his eyes. Hell, she's probably thriving off it, drinking in the reek of his fear like a drug. He may not have stuck around for as long as the Galra had wished when they had their hands on him before, but Keith knows the Druids well enough to know the sadistic fucks love anything that screams.

Lifted off his feet, Keith feels the air constrict in his throat, and tears prick at his eyes in response, brought on by a mix of past and present occurrences, melding together in a single image of pain. His mouth opens, maybe to cry out or yell or hiss, or anything, really, but there's only a choking sound as Haggar tightens the dark noose at his neck, squeezing until his vision swims.

And then he's dropped, roughly, and Keith blearily realizes he's across the room, in the middle of the various restraints. "You remember this, don't you, Fledgling?" Haggar coos, and her voice continues to grind against his mind not unlike the way Red communicates with him, but with far harsher intentions and ever worse consequences. He lets out another whimper, resigned in the fact he's going to die here, but not before Haggar has had as much fun as she can milk out of him. There are lost years to make up for, and Haggar has been patient until this point, and she'll draw out the torture as much as she can.

Keith freezes in a puddle on the floor, muscles paralyzed as the panic attack finally hits him full-on and _hard_. The air is too thick—far worse than when Haggar was suffocating him—and he jerkily paws at the space before him, as if he can push the oxygen into his lungs. He doesn't feel individual heartbeats anymore, just a thrumming through his veins that tells him his blood is still pumping, and a terrifyingly feeling of constantly falling, falling, falling...

He jerks away from the chains as Haggar moves them with her dark powers, but before long, she has him in her grasp again, too, and then he's yanked hard against the wall, cheek slamming against it so hard that he sees stars. "How many shall we start with?" Haggar asks, contemplative. "Hmm? How many before we dose you and start up again? We can take it slow. We'll start with twenty."

Keith is still trying to catch his breath, falling to his knees as soon as he's given the slack on the chains, and he doesn't have time to process any of the words before there's a hard _thud_ on his back, shoving him forward with such force that he nearly breaks his nose on the floor.

"Now that won't do," he hears Haggar say behind him, a slight growl in her voice while it still terrorizes his mind, stripping his thoughts raw and scrambling all sense, all the while leaving him unsettled and shivering. The opposite of Red. The chains are removed, for a split second, but before Keith can even drop his hands to his sides, his chestplate is roughly torn from his body, catching on the arm guards and ripping those off too, while his skin stings underneath. Then the cuffs are back on his wrists, this time with only the fabric of the suit underneath his armor to protect against the chill of metal.

The whip sings forward again, and this time Keith hears it, ears flattening back against his head while he chokes on a sob. The impact is searing, all-consuming, and rings in his ears even though the sound was minimal. He stutters forward on the floor, pulling at the chains while he tries to curl into a ball. Haggar's laugh grates in his skull, slicing through his brain until all he can process is the pain, a new red scar on top of the old.

And then it repeats, Haggar's cackling preventing him from regaining any semblance of composure. Keith gasps for air, never fully recovering from his panic attack, though the thrum in his blood slowly dies down, weaker and weaker, while his body tries to cling to the adrenaline to fight off the pain, and slowly fails. Haggar tuts at him, at some point, and Keith's not sure if it was five lashes later or fifteen, but it's before she hits twenty, that much he knows from her disapproval. The edge of his vision is black, fading out from the world, and he slumps completely against the chains holding up his arms.

Haggar crouches next to him, roughly manhandles his chin until she can look at him. “Stupid pup,” she growls, claws drawing blood on his bruised cheek. “Stupid, stupid boy. How would you like a bath?” She yanks his head to the side, so Keith is looking over his shoulder at the well in the center of the room. He manages a high-pitched whimper, eyes going wide while he tries weakly, futilely to pull himself from her grasp. In response, Haggar drags her hand down, leaving gashes where her claws meet skin.

Haggar laughs again, and uses her magic to unlatch the glass cover over the pool, and the shimmering light casts further into the room. Keith finds his voice more, now that Haggar isn't focusing so much on him while she draws out a long stream of quintessence. He thought she was going to draw this out, but as she drew more, that thought flees his mind in favor of: _she's going to kill me_. He was going to die, and he's not sure if that's a blessing or not. He knows the torture is exactly that—torture—but he doesn't want to die, not like this, not alone, not at the hands of the Galra, not _afraid_. But he doesn't have a choice. That much quintessence will heal him, make him powerful, perhaps even enough to beat Haggar, and then destroy him until he supernovas.

But Haggar looks back at him, showing her pointed teeth, and then lets most of the fluid drop back into the pool with a soft _sploosh_. He feels a sliver of tension ease from his body, but then Haggar flings the liquid amber against his back, and Keith screams, arching his back against the pain as his muscles contract. He tugs hard against the chains, and hears a crack as they begin to pull from the wall. Ah, wait, no—that was his jaw snapping shut as he grits his teeth.

He can feel the wounds on his back in excruciating detail. Where before he was a blurry mess of torn flesh, now he is parallel lines of torment that he can trace individually with his mind. While he's still writhing, Haggar calls in one of the guards, says something about taking Keith back to the cell. The thought barely processes while the quintessence heals over his wounds, pulsing through his blood with such ferocity he thinks he can actually feel it in his veins.

But then Haggar is using her powers on him again, a dark vise on this throat, and this time, the air escapes him quickly. The world fades to black and Keith is _gone_.

It's not until later that he realizes why they were bringing him out of the torture room: to not only torment him, but Lance too. Haggar's not stupid, and she knows to manipulate both Keith and Lance's emotions against each other. That's the problem with the paladins of Voltron... They care.

 

 

 

“Keith, _Keith_ ,” he can hear someone hissing against his ear, the breath fanning out over twitchy, sensitive skin. It's too much effort to respond, and the pounding in Keith's head says that the easiest option is to just go back to the ignorant bliss of unconsciousness. But someone, probably the same someone who is trying to speak to him, shakes his shoulder, and the movement stretches over newly-formed scars. The pain jerks Keith into wakefulness, and he scrambles up, skittering away in a crouch and hissing, despite the fact his vision swims dangerously.

“Keith!” the voice says, too high and piercing to be Haggar's, not to mention the fact the hair on the nape of Keith's neck relaxes rather than stands on end at the sound. “It's me! Holy shit, dude—”

Keith groans and slowly blinks into awareness. “Lance?” he whispers.

From across the cell, Lance asks slowly, “Are... you alright?”

Keith stands, and tests the movement of his arms by stretching. He gives a yelp when his muscles ache in protest, and growls out, “Fucking bitch,” except that halfway through the curse, his voice cracks off in a sob. This is even worse, he realizes, being back in the cell with Lance because Lance keeps him sane, reminds him of what it is to taste freedom, and then again and again Haggar is going to drag him away and break him.

Lance is looking at him warily, ample distance between them. Keith gets it—he's a monster, or part of one at least, and he's honestly extremely confused as to why Lance hasn't called him a traitor and tried to kill him yet. He looks up at the other boy, gaze sad, but brow furrowed just enough to pose a question.

But Lance doesn't answer. Instead, he jumps and exclaims, “Fuck! Keith your eyes—what the hell!”

Keith blinks at him. His... eyes? Oh, shit—right, Galra yellow, probably glowing in the dim. “Sorry,” he breathes, as if speaking any louder will scare Lance away further. “I—uh... I'll try and shift them back to normal, but it'll be difficult.” He can still feel the quintessence, a constant ebb of power just under his skin, though it burns too, and with it still in his system, it's probably going to be way too hard to control the transformation. “I could close my eyes, if that makes you feel any better?”

“That, um...” Lance trails off, and Keith sees him bite his lip out of habit before he recoils when his teeth land on the cut there. “No,” he says with finality. “No, it's okay.”

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, and despite the fact it was him that was just dragged off and tortured, he still feels his chest clench with concern for Lance. He resists the urge to go closer, to inspect the claw marks, see if the quintessence has held and fought the infection. Lance doesn't smell of illness anymore, so that's good, but he's too far away to be sure. “How are you feeling?”

Lance pins him with an incredulous look. “Fuck you, man. You're asking me that? What about you?”

“I'll survive,” Keith clips.

“Will you?” Lance shoots back, angry.

Keith presses his lips together in a thin line, because the answer at the end of it all is no, but he doesn't have the heart to say it. It makes it far realer than he would like to have to deal with face-to-face. He looks away, blinks back tears.

Lance shuffles in movement, and Keith's ears prick towards the sounds. He hears Lance take a few steps, and he's grateful because if Lance is walking, then he's feeling better. But then there's a hiss of pain, and Keith is across the room in a second, steadying Lance before he can topple. Lance eyes are wide with surprise, and, okay, maybe Haggar gave Keith a little more quintessence than she intended because he normally doesn't have those sorts of reflexes and he's probably looking back at Lance with a similar expression.

“Sorry,” he rasps, jerking his hands back now that Lance has his footing again. “Sorry—I didn't—You probably hate me, don't you?”

“Why the hell are you so warm?” Lance hisses at him, and Keith does a fucking double-take because that was _not_ the response he expected.

Stammering, he manages, “G-Galra have high body temperatures?”

“You're saying for the past three days I have been freezing my ass off and I could have used you as my own personal space—ha, space, get it—heater?”

“You're delirious,” Keith says, and searches Lance's eyes for any trace of the wild gaze he'd had earlier when the fever was taking him. Instead, Lance just looks at him like he's personally offended his great-grandmother.

“No,” he quips sternly. “But you are if you think you're going to slink off into a corner, because I am so going to cuddle the shit out of you for your body heat... Okay, so maybe I'm a little delirious? That glowy stuff is pretty crazy, but I'm mostly lucid.”

Keith stares in impressed, unbelieving silence for a moment. Finally, he shakes himself out of it. “Let me look at your wound.”

Lance nods, and lets Keith help him to the bench, where he props his leg up on it. Keith is pleasantly surprised at how well Lance is taking, well, everything. There's no hesitation in his motion when Keith presses his clawed hand gently against Lance's back. The shudder of horror that Keith expects never comes, and Lance still swats at him gently—playfully—when Keith accidentally probes a significantly tender spot around his injuries. The hate, resentment, disgust that he keeps waiting to see in the other's gaze never shows. Either Lance is a very good liar, or Keith is somehow in the clear.

He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

After admitting that the quintessence seemed to have taken the infection out of Lance's body, Keith allows Lance to use him for his warmth. They end up on the bench together, Lance pressing into Keith's side, while they sit in awkward silence.

Clearing his throat, Keith finally ventures, “Are we, um... Going to talk about this? About me?”

Lance glances up at him, squinting as if he doesn't understand, and Keith points at the ears twitching ever-so-slightly on his head, a nervous tick. Lance shrugs and goes back to resting his head against Keith's shoulder.

Keith isn't sure how to respond, but before he can think of anything to add, Lance's voice fills the air, though he doesn't turn to look at Keith. “Before I left for Garrison, I knew I was bi. I was so scared of being shunned out of my house, of my family not loving me anymore because I wasn't... like them. I thought they would think I wasn't normal. Right before I took off, I came out. The last month with them... nothing changed. They knew, and it became a part of me, but it didn't change who I was to them. I was still Lance. That month was the best time I'd had with my family in years. I wish I had told them sooner. I would be a dick not to offer you the same courtesy. You're family too.”

Keith stares at the top of Lance's head, marveling and sentimental and Goddammit torture makes him emotional apparently, because he almost has to wipe the tears away.

But then Lance yawns and smacks Keith hard in the chin with the top of his head, and Keith is swearing at him and the ensuing argument and laughter is the lightest they've shared in days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: A narrowly dodged panic attack, Injury (nothing exceedingly graphic), Torture (whipping, mention of knives, suffocation, quintessence), panic attack
> 
> The quintessence lore is probably the first major deviation from canon. It is more accurately explained in a later chapter, but hopefully it's understandable now at least to some degree.


	3. Night Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> siri why the fuck are these chapters so short when there's a 24.5k chapter later down the line
> 
>  
> 
> _good question. maybe there's an answer_

“ _Oh, speak cousin, or if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss and let him speak neither.”_

\- William Shakespeare, _Much Ado About Nothing_

 

Keith wakes with a crick in his neck, and his back sore (well, sorer than usual compared to the wooden benches) from sleeping sitting up. Lance is still hogging his warmth, curled as close to Keith's side as he can be without being on top of him. Keith waits until the stomp of patrolling footsteps fades out, and in the silence, he listens to Lance's breathing, trying to detect any trace of sickness. Satisfied he no longer hears Lance rasp when he breathes, Keith tries to shift so he can gently let Lance down, but he accidentally half-drops the other boy because the arm under Lance is asleep.

Lance groans when his back hits the bench hard, and Keith shakes his arm out, wincing at the pins and needles. “Asshole!” Lance cries, rubbing the back of his head and glaring.

“Sorry,” Keith grunts, flexing his fingers. He examines his claws—they're shorter now, receding out of habit when Keith unintentionally tries to repress his Galran appearance and senses now that the quintessence has had a chance to run its course. He spares a glance at Lance, who is grumbling unintelligible words and trying to pop his neck. “Do you, uh, mind if I look like this?”

Lance peers up at him. “I mean your eyes are freaky as fuck, but... no? It's—kinda cute actually,” and he dusts a shade of pink before turning away.

Keith blinks at him, incredulous. “You're ridiculous.”

“I'm amazing,” Lance snarks.

As much as Keith hates to ruin the mood when Lance seems to be some semblance of okay, considering their situation, he can't stop himself from blurting, “They're going to take me again, probably.”

Lance clamps his mouth shut, sobering instantly. Keith can hear the response Lance would use if they were in any other, less fatal, situation: _you're such a party-pooper, Keith._ But Lance doesn't say this, because even the bright, optimistic blue paladin can't find an upside to the position they're in. “Why?” he finally whispers.

Keith sighs, and flops down on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the bench Lance is on. “Because I'm different. Because I'm an abomination. Because I symbolize the one weakness Galra have. They like to see how much I can take, see how much weaker I am than them. They like to hear me scream.” At the admission, Keith feels his chest tighten, the beginnings of another panic attack ghosting over him, but before it takes full effect, he feels Lance's hand fall into his hair, between his ears.

Keith jumps slightly, and his ears twitch back, just barely, but he lets Lance run his fingers over his hair, thicker now that the Galra fur at the base of his ears melds in. He feels himself relax under the ministrations, and leans his head into Lance's hand involuntarily when he scratches behind an ear with gentle fingers. For the first time, Keith lets the fear pass over him, rather than crash into him like a wave, and he's _okay_. Breathing deep and eyes closed in a vague sense of bliss, he whispers, “Thank you.”

“Your ears are so soft,” Lance breathes, wondrous.

Then the sudden sound of close footsteps makes both Lance and Keith jump, all contact ceased. There are two soldiers, and one leaves a plate of grimy food for Lance while the other roughly hoists Keith to his feet, and Keith glances over his shoulder once at Lance as he's dragged away, because he can't promise he'll come back.

 

 

 

Keith is right.

They do torture him again that day, this time while he's strapped to the table. Haggar uses her dark magic and lets him see the knives and scalpels dance above his head before they dive down and slice against his skin. Before, the Druids never touched his face much, but when Haggar is in charge, there's none of the same mentality, and twice, Keith flinches when a knife spears straight for his forehead, just to twitch to the side at the last moment. Eventually, he resorts to squeezing his eyes shut, so he can't see them coming, only crying out when they finally touch skin.

And just when he feels himself fading out of consciousness, Haggar grips his throat in her black hold, tips his head back and forces him to drink the quintessence she has waiting for him, until it spills from his lips and stings against the cuts on his cheek. It sears through his system, strengthening him, replacing the need to have blood pumping through his veins when he has pure energy to thrive off of instead. Keith jerks against the cuffs that hold him in place, seizes against the table while his wounds close, fresh scars a light violet on his skin. And then, Haggar begins again, the blades resuming their ominous dance above, and by the third time she does it, Keith hears himself screaming for nothing at all. The sound of her laugh alone sets him off, and he feels the sting of knives in her voice.

This time, he's conscious when they throw him back into the cell. He lands in a shaking heap, panting, on the floor, and Lance is at his side before he can even process where he is. Keith tries to lift himself, but his arms give out, the pain of receding wounds still fire on his nerves while quintessence reforms his body forcefully, commanding his flesh to heal against its will, a simultaneous act of healing and suffering.

Lance is whispering something to him, but Keith is too exhausted and broken to understand. Instead he lets out a whimper, shifting towards Lance's body before he can help himself. Lance pulls Keith half into his lap, settling his head on Lance's good leg, and makes soothing _shush_ noises in response to Keith's high-pitched whines. He stays like that for a while, if he can manage to acknowledge the passage of time, curled in a ball with his head against Lance's leg, breathing in his scent while Lance's hand scratches softly behind his ears, chasing away the panic and anguish.

And this pattern continues. They take Keith. He always spares one last look at Lance, if he can, to memorize his face once more, just in case. Each time, Haggar has something new for him, or a new twist to an old torment. The next time he's whipped, she makes him count, and each time he loses track, instead of adding to the regime, she forces quintessence down his throat, letting it run its terrible wildfire course of destruction through his body. He's left shaking from the power of it all, thrumming against his bones, and it's terrifying and terrible in a way Keith doesn't understand because he's _stronger_ now but also incapacitated by his own muscles while liquid gold brands pain into his mind permanently.

Sometimes Haggar just holds him in her magic and _talk_ _s_ , asking about where Keith has been, about the things she's going to hurt him with, about the boy back in the cell that he seems to care so much for. She lets her horrid voice wrap around his mind and _squeeze_ , leaving him senseless and rabid, and as soon as he's incoherent and feral against her grasp on him, she sends him back to the cell. She lets Lance see him for the wild, vicious monster he is, when Keith gets thrown back in once, and slams himself against the electrified bars, screeching as the pain hits him but unwilling to let go while he shouts profanities at the soldiers. Her laugh still haunts him, and it takes Lance the whole night to coax him back into some sort of normal.

And then Haggar does it again.

The worst part is that, even through the pain and insanity, as long as she sends him back to Lance, Keith knows he can take it. He can take anything she does to him, as long as he gets to see Lance one more time, gets to press against his side as a space heater, and gets to feel his nimble fingers against his fur. It's a worse hope than the last time he was here because it's so, so fragile. They never come for Lance, but one day they might. They always send Keith back, but one day they might not. Before, his goal was _escape_ , but now the days are just a blur of torture followed by _Lance, Lance, Lance,_ chanted on repeat until Keith's body fails him.

 

 

 

The cycle continues, for weeks perhaps, though there's really no way of telling, and through it all, Keith and Lance find themselves at the peak of their “we make a good team” dynamic. More often than not, Keith is tossed like a ragdoll back into the cell after a session with Haggar, and he wakes the next morning clutching at Lance while the other boy traps him loosely in his lap with the circle of his arms. He doesn't know how long this goes on, but Lance's leg has healed by now, and Keith has plenty more nightmare fuel to last him the rest of his life, however long that is. It's purely for comfort, just for the sake of their sanities while the try to endure this trial, though they both seem to know there will be no triumph on this mission.

Then again, Keith knows Lance, and nothing with Lance is ever _just_. There's always more.

So when one night, Keith is curled against Lance's chest while he leans against the wall, and Lance brushes his lips in a soft gesture on Keith's forehead, he doesn't question it. The quintessence still hums in his being, and he anchors himself to Lance, his life preserver in the sea they're both drowning in. He lets it happen since somewhere along the way, in his journey in space and in finding what family is, Keith has learned that this is _okay—_ to be so invested in one person that you ache for them. He's accepted that long ago, and the ghost of Lance's touch seems to imply that the other has come to the same conclusion.

When Keith finally feels the effect of the quintessence finally ebb away, and the only trace of feeling he begins to register is Lance's fingers in his hair, he pulls himself off Lance's chest, but Lance doesn't pull his arms away from the lazy loop around Keith's waist. Keith doesn't move either, sitting on his knees in between Lance's legs, and the moment stretches. Keith counts the heartbeats that they stay like that, trapped in a bubble of seclusion while they search each other's gazes.

“Are you gonna ask me what that was?” Lance breaks the silence.

Keith jolts forward and brushes his lips against Lance's, gentle as possible, and only for a quick second, and then he leans back. Lance looks at him, his mouth parted in surprise, though he doesn't move, doesn't push Keith away. Instead, the surprise fades to a sad, broken smile. “I swear to God, Keith, if you die tomorrow...” he trails off, watching Keith warily.

For a moment, Keith furrows his brow, puzzled. “No, I—No. I'm not planning on it,” he finally decides on. He feels like a time bomb, but there's not much he can do about that at this point. His life is the sand slipping between Haggar fingers, and one of these days, the last grain is going to fall. “I just... I don't know what's going to happen.”

“Then why...?” Lance questions.

“Because I spent all this time thinking I was invincible. I knew I wasn't, but I never faced the reality like that. And I know, Shiro would scold me all the time, but it never really stuck until now.” Keith swallows and draws strength from the faith, albeit slight confusion, in the Lance's blue gaze. “I spent all that time telling myself I would be able to do that another day. I put it off because I was scared, and I didn't want to change the good thing we had. But now I'm not sure if I'll get tomorrow, and I'll be damned if I go another day pretending I'm not in love with you, Lance.”

Keith clamps his mouth shut suddenly, canines pricking into his lips painfully. He feels his face flush and looks down at his lap. The last part had slipped out, completely involuntary, but now the confession sits heavy in the air between them.

Lance pulls his arms away, and Keith leans back further, intending to leave the enclosure of Lance's comfort. Before he finds his feet underneath him, though, Lance's hand reaches over his, stilling Keith's fidgeting with the touch alone. He seems to study his hand, tracing a finger over the knuckles, and feeling the way Keith's claws extend out, having torn through the fabric of his suit when Keith first lost control over the transformation. Slowly but devoid of any hesitation, Lance raises Keith's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Don't worry about it,” he whispers, breath fanning over the back of Keith's hand. “I... I don't know how I feel, but... But 'love' is a pretty good way to describe it, I think.”

Keith feels his breath hitch in his throat at the admission, and the gaze Lance pins him with is full of intent. It's not hungry or desiring, but it's strong and real and raw. He watches the barely-there tremor in Lance's hand as he reaches up press his palm to Keith's cheek, butterfly-light because he's conscious of the fresh scars there. Keith leans into his touch, and the warmth of comfort that fills his chest bunches in his throat and echoes out in a sound he's never made before.

He purrs.

Lance goes wide-eyed but doesn't pull away, and he (poorly) stifles a snicker when a look of even greater surprise and distress passes over Keith's face. The purr cuts off with a tiny squeaking noise that Keith is pretty sure came from him, but he doesn't want to admit it... and then starts right back up again when Lance surges up away from the wall to push his lips onto Keith's, smothering the sound as it vibrates through Keith, leaving him boneless.

Keith can't do much in terms of movement, since he's sitting on his legs, but Lance curls around him, the hand at Keith's cheek slipping into his hair to brush comfortingly at the base of his ears, while the other flattens against the small of his back, a reassuring pressure. Lance is gentle, a constant hum of existence that's so _there_ and so _warm_ that Keith can only manage to clutch onto the slope of his shoulders, for fear it's the last chance he gets.

The kiss—or maybe time—is languid, while Keith memorizes the taste of Lance's mouth on his and melts into his hands, and he has to take a heartbeat to remind himself that this is _real_. It's terrifying and horrible and inescapable, but somehow Keith's a little more okay with those facts now that it's Lance he's going to share his last meaningful moments with. _Meaningful_ , the word blares across his brain, because that's what this is now. Keith was truly brave for the first time in his life, and the result was he got to _hold_ Lance. To share something with him.

And it _meant_ something.

Lance pulls back, allowing Keith the room to maneuver his legs free, and he ends up pressing his side against Lance's chest, face buried in his neck, while Lance runs his hands over him, fingers ghosting over his side. The feathery touches send shivers through Keith when they touch the skin revealed by his torn suit, now more rags than anything. They still have Lance's armor, but as of recent, he's stripped off his upper body protection in favor of huddling against Keith's warmth.

Keith resigns that he has no dignity in Lance's eyes anymore anyway, so he lets a contented sigh pass over his lips and puff against Lance's skin. He feels the rumble of Lance's chest when he chuckles, and it matches the purr that still radiates out of somewhere deep inside Keith. Lance presses another kiss to Keith's head, fuzzy ears tickling his cheek. The words he speaks are threaded through Keith's hair, dusted with affection and laced with an immeasurable sadness: “I don't want this to end.”

It's a funny thought, because, really, they should be wishing for this all to be over. They should be wishing for the release of death (Keith has admitted as much many times to Haggar, while she whispers poison to him and laps up his screams with greedy ears), but there's something about the seclusion of the moment that makes the universe seem to stand still. Keith savors it. Because if there's anything left that he still has the right or ability to hold onto, it would be Lance. When he first met him, Keith would have written off the comment as stupid and illogical, considering the reality of their circumstances, but now he gets it. He understands.

He holds Lance just a little tighter.

It's not until Lance reaches up to brush his thumb over Keith's cheek that Keith realizes he's crying, the tears wet and warm as they soak into Lance's suit. His breath hitches and stretches his neck up to look at Lance. “I don't want them to take me,” he whispers, plea interrupted by a hiccup of terrified sound. “Lance, I don't wanna go back—I can't, I can't, I can't—it's—” his voice breaks off in a high-pitched keen of distress.

“Shh, shh,” Lance is saying, and pulls Keith closer, tucking his head back against the crook of his neck. His arms tighten around him, but then one hand goes to pet the spot that he knows calms Keith down. “I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore.”

Keith chokes on a sob, and he clutches at Lance, claws scrabbling for purchase until he digs into Lance's shoulder. “You _c-can't_ ,” he manages between gasps and tears. “You can't, th-they'll hurt you too—Lance, you _can't_.”

“We'll find something,” Lance assures him. “We'll get out. We'll fight. _Something_. I'm not going to let you go. They can take us both, but—I won't let you fight this alone. I won't let them do this to you.” They're empty promises, Keith thinks. Lance's body is even weaker than his; he wouldn't be able to take the torture. At least they wouldn't be able to use the quintessence against him, but Keith would rather curl up and die than have Lance step foot in that room.

Keith trembles, and Lance holds him through the despair. He rides the subsequent panic attack out using Lance's whispered words of hope and love and home as an anchor.

As he's coming back to himself, Lance shifts uncomfortably underneath him, and Keith lets him up to stretch. As Lance paces their cell, Keith curls against the wall, watching him, and his gaze catches on the new rips in Lance's suit. Without thinking, Keith leaps up and interrupts Lance, who quirks and eyebrow at him in response. Keith turns him, hands firm on the other's upper arms, while he inspects the damage he's done, and sucks in a breath. “Lance—I'm—I'm so sorry.”

Lance glances down, tugging on the collar of his suit to get a better view, and then shrugs with the other shoulder, since Keith won't let him move the hurt one. “It's fine, Keith,” he says, nonchalant. “It's not deep. It'll heal over in a day or two, or I could use the quintessence. I still have most of the bottle.”

Keith's ears flatten against his head at the mention of the liquid, and he shakes his head. “No—I, uhm... Let me try something?”

“Go ahead,” Lance response immediately, and the unrelenting trust he has in Keith warms him. It's amazing, how Lance has done so much for him, how he's accepted Keith so wholeheartedly without hesitation despite the fact Keith is so closely associated with the same monsters that keep them here. Looking at the shallow claw marks on Lance's shoulder, though, Keith isn't entire sure he's as different from the Galra as he'd like to think.

“I'm sorry,” he says to Lance's skin, and then tears the suit open a little further and bites down, just hard enough to prick through skin with his canines. Lance twitches but otherwise doesn't react, holding himself still while Keith flattens his tongue out over the tiny punctures, lapping until the blood stops flowing.

When he pulls back, Lance is looking at him with a confused expression. He reaches up with his free hand and presses his fingers into his shoulder. “It's... numb? It tingles a little, but I can't feel anything.”

Keith feels his cheeks heat. “Galra—Galra tend to mate kind of... aggressively, so they developed a sort of anesthesia compound in their saliva that takes effect when in the bloodstream. The tingling is for... uh...”

“Other places?” Lance proposes, and flashes Keith a shit-eating grin. “Anything else I should know about you?”

Keith frowns and crosses his arms. “Like what?”

Lance pretends to contemplate the question thoroughly, but then he steps forward, smirking as he quips, “Like if you like it when I do this.” He grabs Keith's chin, firm, and slants their mouths together with a tilt of his head. Lance sucks Keith's bottom lip into his mouth, and when Keith reacts with a soft gasp, Lance slips his tongue forward to trace along the canines that bit into him moments before.

Keith pulls away, surprised at his own breathlessness. Compared to earlier kisses, time now seems to be making up for lost, well, time, and everything is moving twice as fast. He stares at Lance, unsure how to react, except for the fact that now his cheeks are burning, and he's not sure what changed between this kiss and the ones previous—except... Now the expression in Lance's gaze is just the slightest bit predatory, hungry, and okay, maybe it wasn't the best idea to use Galra sex compounds to numb Lance's injuries.

But the gaze softens into something gentle at Keith's hesitation. “Too much?” Lance asks softly, and suddenly Keith can smell his uncertainty.

Keith shakes his head quickly. “No. No, it was... good.”

Lance lets out a breathy laugh and then the suave front is back. “Only 'good'? I can do better than that. Come here, Batman.”

Keith scowls at him at the nickname, but steps forward into the circle of Lance's arms anyway. Somewhere along the way, perhaps when Lance is peppering kisses along the edge of Keith's ear, Keith lets himself believe that only for a moment, they are safe. He pushes tomorrow away, tries to forget the horrors that Haggar has for him, and allows Lance to lower them both to the floor, curled around each other and encased in warmth like sunshine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentioned panic attacks (one is a bit more detailed but not very), torture (knives, quintessence, whipping), mentions of death
> 
> Holy shit i forgot how sappy this chapter was  
> also we've encountered the first chapter with a famous typo. it was removed during editing, but "life life preserver" lives on in the klance klance discord.


	4. Night Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should be packing but hA WHO DOES THAT

“ _And it's not just a matter of you hurting me. I will hurt you too, even if I don't mean to. I'm not the girl you think I am. And you will remember this conversation, and wish that you'd listened to me.”_

\- _The Exiled Queen_ by Cinda Williams Chima

 

For the third time in a row, Keith awakes on the floor, with Lance's arms a tight grip on his waist. Keith basks in the hold as long as possible, because as much as he tries not to think about it, he knows what's coming. The panic is ingrained in him again, just the way Haggar likes it, with any simple thought able to set off another panic attack that renders Keith absolutely shattered.

Lance stirs to wakefulness after him, and blinks sleepily at Keith until he locks onto the way his ears are pinned back and his eyes are wild. Lance makes cooing noise, and kisses Keith's nose, while he runs the palm of his hand down Keith's back in soothing strokes. It helps, some, but Keith can hear the guards make their way down the hall and reluctantly pulls away from Lance.

He's shaking. He tries to keep himself from doing so, but it happens anyway, and Lance notices. As he sits up, he makes a low growling sound that sounds far more like a noise that Keith would make. “This is enough,” he hisses, shuffling his chestplate onto his shoulders. “I'm not going to let them...”

“Lance,” Keith whimpers, because whatever Lance is planning, it won't end well. He knows the other boy well enough to know he's not all talk (okay, maybe ninety percent talk). “Don't do anything stupid.”

“It's not stupid,” Lance growls. “I have a plan.”

“It will only make it worse.” Keith's voice cracks while he hugs his arms, trying to stop the involuntary trembling.

“This isn't like you Keith—” Lance starts with a huff, whirling and crossing his arms. “What happened to the strength and the confidence and the fearlessness? You were always the most reckless of the team! Why now are you so afraid to act?”

Keith kills the whimper in his throat before it escapes. “Be-because—”

Lance steps forward, and brushes his fingers over a particularly deep scar along Keith's jaw from the day before. He softens, but his voice is still bitter when he whispers, “They're breaking you, Keith. I won't sit still and watch while we wait for them to deal the final blow.”

Keith feels his lip quiver, and he bites down on it, pricking his own skin on accident when he's not careful with his canines. “Lance, _no—_ ”

But then they hear the Galra patrol, louder now, as they near, and Lance steps back. Keith waits, staring at the ground while his body goes rigid, on the verge of another attack. Lance watches him intently. One soldier steps in between Keith and Lance, while the other grabs Keith's arms and pulls him towards the door.

“ _Keith,_ ” Lance hisses, and Keith flicks his gaze up just in time to see Lance brandish the bottle of quintessence in the palm of his hand.

Keith loses it.

At the sight of the bottle and its contents, his grasp on reality finally tips, and he cries out, thrashing while he sucks in far too much air because it's not enough, not enough, not enough. Vaguely, he registers the grunt of the other Galra and there's a flash of blue in the corner of his eye.

Then the cell sparks purple, and there's a _thud_ , as the electrocuted body of the other soldier slides to the floor. Meanwhile, the other Galra shouts down the hallway, tries to hold onto Keith, and draw his weapon all at the same time. Lance lands a hard kick to his temple before his fumbling hands can successfully do any of what he intended.

Keith crumbles to the ground, but Lance is at his shoulder, tugging him up and hissing at him. “Come _on_ , Keith! We have to go. I'm sorry about the bottle—I had—I had to create a distraction.” Then more soothing: “It's okay, it's okay. You're safe. But we have to move. Please, Keith.”

Keith whines, but lets Lance drag him to his feet. He follows, almost blindly, after the pound of Lance's footsteps as they bolt down the hallway. He's still gasping, and his vision swims in a blur of the purple hue of Galra lights, but Keith manages to stumble forward at a reasonable pace, just barely managing to pull himself back from the ledge of panic in order to listen to Lance's directions.

He jerks suddenly with a cry, as something clamps tight on his throat, and he claws at the hold, trying to pull the offender off. His fingers connect with nothing, until at some point he reaches so far through the magic that he scratches his own skin. In front of him, Lance skids to a stop, whirling with a snarl already on his face.

“Catch him,” Haggar orders from somewhere behind Keith, and even though she's not using her magic to drive him towards the brink of insanity, he still feels the anguish of the past weeks in her voice. “Don't hurt him, much. Yet.”

Lance spins again, to face the oncoming onslaught of guards, and manages to take out two before a Galra soldier slams the butt of his gun into Lance's head and he goes sprawling across the floor. Haggar cackles. “Bring him. And restrain this one.” Haggar drops Keith, but before he can even suck in enough air to relax his burning lungs, his arms are pinned behind him and he's shoved roughly to his feet.

Keith sags against the soldier's grip on him, not sure if he has the strength to even get to the torture room, much less survive another session. Haggar leads the procession, still chuckling at their failure, but Keith swims in a state of semi-conscious that ignores her unless she uses her magic to project to his mind. Somehow, he manages to lift his head, to meet Lance's gaze as they both stumble along.

There's worry in the blue gaze. Lance looks concerned, and mouths the words, _I'm sorry_ , to Keith. Processing in slow motion, Keith realizes there are tears staining his cheeks, and he reads the guilt in the lines of Lance's brow.

 _Not your fault_ , Keith tries to mouth back, but he feels like his body won't respond the way he wants it to. The panic attacks, impending torture, and near suffocation have taken a toll on both his mental and physical health, and Keith feels like he's moving through water. By the time the torture chamber doors slide open in ominous greeting, the soldiers are more dragging than restraining him.

Once they're in the room, Haggar suddenly picks Keith up, dark spirals of magic dancing from her outstretched hand, and then she flings him across the room. Keith hits the wall opposite hard, the air rushing out of him, and he groans as he lands in a broken heap on the floor. Distantly, he hears Lance scream. Or maybe it was him. No, it's definitely Lance because he's currently in a dazed pile on the floor, with at least some broken bones, and he definitely does not have the capability to do anything but wheeze for oxygen.

“Get up, Pup,” Haggar growls from the center of the room. Keith doesn't move. He doesn't think he can. “You've taken worse. Get up or we'll start on the blue paladin.”

Keith stirs as best he can, and manages to find his legs underneath him. He doesn't know how, but then his arms are holding him up, though he sways, unsteady. He coughs, body spasming, and spits blood onto the floor. Probably not good, but not something he necessarily has to worry about at the moment when he's likely going to die anyway. Escape attempts don't get heard from again in Galra prisons whether successful or otherwise.

He tries to shift weight onto one leg, and topples almost instantly. The air is starting to return to him, so the room stops spinning as much as it had moments before. But now his body is registering the damage done on his torso, and while Keith coughs weakly on the floor, his bruised chest cries out against any movement. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he struggles upwards, impossibly fighting against gravity and his own weakness. His breath is watery against his ribs, and Keith spits blood again, but manages to stay standing, looking blearily at Haggar.

He can hear Lance sobbing from where the Galra soldiers restrain him, and the cry intensifies when Haggar lifts Keith by the throat again, tossing him a shorter distance to the chains attached to the wall. He falls on his knees, but manages to catch himself with his arms before his chest sustains more hits, though the impact is still jarring to his bones. The cuffs latch around Keith's wrists of their own accord, guided by Haggar's magic, and then yank upwards so Keith is stretched flat against the wall, but still on his knees.

He hears the sing of the whip a heartbeat before it connects, and he manages to squeeze his eyes shut just before his back erupts in searing pain. Haggar is using the cat this time—a whip that splits into multiple tails—and the separate lashes spiderweb agony across Keith's skin. He screams, and Lance screams with him. It sounds as if Keith is underwater, as Lance cries, “Stop it! _Stop! Please!_ ”

Haggar lets out another maniacal cackle, and this time she amplifies the sound with her magic to grate against Keith's brain. He groans and sags against the hold of the chains, swaying precariously towards the ground again. His breath catches, and he hacks more, tastes the blood as it drips past his lips.

The whip cracks again.

Keith's vision fogs dangerously, black dancing across his gaze, and suddenly the world melts into a dull throbbing rather than the sting of new wounds. He doesn't register when Haggar removes the cuffs, and doesn't hear her tutting, terrifyingly incongruous in contrast to Lance's desperate shouts. He doesn't feel much at all, barely able to pinpoint Lance's voice from the ringing in his ears, until suddenly everything explodes in swirls the color of sunflowers.

Keith screams, but it's drowned in the quintessence. He feels it overtake him, as Haggar throws him away from where she'd forced his head underneath the surface of the pool. Everything burns, burns, burns, and all Keith can see is a yellow haze of brightness. He's crying, he knows, while his body feels like it's breaking and reforming a thousand times over, far worse than anything Haggar has done before, and he writhes against the ground. As if anything he does can chase away the torment.

Just as he's starting to regain control over his limbs, body thrumming with excruciating power, Haggar lifts him again, and cradles him in her chokehold over the pool. His wild eyes latch onto her toothy grin, filled with malice, and Keith resigns himself to the idea that this is the end. It doesn't stop him from futilely struggling, though, as he kicks wildly and flails against the intangible magic latched around his neck. He meets Lance's gaze, while he fights, and tries to find peace in the face of the boy he's come to hold so close to his heart, but Lance is screaming something, though Keith can't hear the words, and sobbing, struggling relentlessly against the soldiers' vise grip on his arms.

Keith meets his eyes, ceasing his struggle in order to focus on Lance. He memorizes the blue color. Remembers the blanket of emotions he's seen tint the shade from icy gray to seafoam green. Lets himself drown in Lance, the color of the ocean.

Haggar cackles.

The wall explodes.

Surprised, the druid drops Keith, and he plummets into certain death.

There's nothing. The world—Lance's scream, the grind of metal on metal, Haggar's choked sound—fades out. Keith's vision goes dark, but he's still conscious. He's conscious of the quintessence he's completely submerged in: feels every shift in the liquid as waves lap over his head from when he fell in; is swept down by the thrum of _more more more_ that builds inside him; is torn to shreds as he screams silently, fluid pooling in his mouth, while he feels like he's going to combust.

He's being consumed by a strength that's not his. It burns through him, fills his lungs until he breathes quintessence, realigns his bones in unnatural ways, burns along the lines of past scars, ripping them from his flesh. His vision is back, a blaring gold, and he watches as it tints orange as his blood mixes in. It's trying to fix him, trying to make him the perfect warrior, but Galra have never been that flexible, and even if the quintessence deems him a satisfactory product, Keith's body will only be able to sustain the sheer energy of it for a few moments.

As his vision goes milky white, he says goodbye to his friends in silent terror. He wishes his apology to Shiro because he failed, he failed, he failed, and hopes the person he considers his best friend can find it in his heart to forgive. Keith prays for Lance, hopes to God that his own pain is enough to satiate Haggar's lust. He hopes Lance never has to face the pain of torture, and never has to face the pain of loneliness. He hopes Lance can be happy, someday. He thinks of Pidge—Pidge, Pidge, Pidge. His mind sticks on the name for some reason, as if someone's repeating it in his head. Because someone is, above the surface.

Suddenly, he's dragged upwards, heaved by his shoulders out of the well. He lands in a dripping heap on Lance, coughing up quintessence and clutching wildly at the blue paladin. He scrabbles for something to cling to, something to bring him to back to reality, but his vision is still pale yellow, and his skin is still on fire.

“Holy fuck,” he hears Pidge hiss from nearby, but he doesn't really register it as words, much less a response to anything. “Quick, get him in Green. I'll hold off at the door.”

Lance is pulling at him, then, and Keith doesn't understand. He wants Lance to hold him, to let him die the arms of the boy he loves, so why is Lance forcing him to _move_? He wants to sleep.

Lance tugs at his shoulders again, and his muscles protest. Keith hisses, weak and stuttering, and tries to curl into a ball. Breathing hurts, he thinks, and decides maybe it's just better to stop doing that too, but even when he holds still, everything hurts, pulsing with _too much too much too much_. Keith groans.

Lance yanks hard on his upper body, and Keith stumbles upwards, reeling and collapsing against something warm. “Come on,” Lance growls in his ear, and Keith hisses brokenly again, clawing weakly at Lance until his fingers catch on the edge of the chestplate at his neck. Finding purchase, he curls towards Lance, still trying to blink the quintessence from his eyes and whining against Lance's shoulder. “You can do it, Buddy,” Lance whispers encouragingly, but his voice is strained and Keith is still having trouble translating words into meaning.

Lance drags him forward, slowly making progress, and when Keith feels the ground change underneath his feet, Lance forces him onward a little more and then lets him fall to the floor, shaking and whimpering. Keith hears the pounding of footsteps—the Galra soldiers coming to take him, to throw him back into the pool and watch him suffer—but only Pidge's voice accompanies the frenzy. “Try to keep him from hitting anything,” they order, and Keith feels the brush of air as they pass.

Within seconds, Keith's world is moving, and he clutches to Lance, who sits down next to him. He feels like Lance is brushing his fingers over Keith's skin, and then a rough texture that helps to sooth the heat of all-consuming energy.

His veins still sing with something worse than the lash of the whip, something worse than the ghostly anticipation of hovering knives, something worse than Haggar's poison-barbed tongue. Keith wants to cut himself open, to let the quintessence bleed out of him, but when he starts to claw at his own arms, Lance sucks in a breath and pins his hands above his head. Keith whimpers, and feels the cuts heal over anyway.

He would welcome death, if it came then, to end the way he aches deep in his bones. It's better now, even, that Lance is here, and he can feel the warmth of his body seeping into him. It would be a comfort as Keith passed on, but death doesn't come. Keith sobs against the unrelenting sizzle of fire in his blood. It boils, or at least feels like it, as it pumps through him, carrying quintessence from ears to toes to destroy everything in its path like untamed flames. Like Keith should be doing now, except that instead of feral, he's only broken.

The world jerks to a stop, and Lance is pushing up on his shoulder, shouting something towards the sound of mechanical parts. “Shiro! Shiro, help me! I can't carry him!” He hears someone else give a yell in response, and then shuddering breaths. Lance pushes on him again, and Keith's ears flatten back, though the hiss catches in his throat. “Shiro!” Lance screams. “Fuck. Hunk—”

He's cut off by a commanding tone. “Hunk, deal with Shiro! Make sure he doesn't hurt himself or anyone. I'll take Keith.”

Then he's lifted into the air with strong arms, and the scent that hits him is foreign in compared to Lance, and Keith thrashes wildly. He clips something with his claws, and then growls and lunges to bite at the liquid that drips onto his face in response. When he tastes blood, he freezes, growling until it hurts his throat and he coughs up quintessence. Something settles into his hair, and he realizes it's Lance's hand, soothingly stroking against the base of his ears as he's transported from Pidge's lion.

He hears Lance suck in a breath. “Allura—”

“It's nothing,” she insists, voice low, and then Keith is shuffled in her arms, fitted into some sort of cocoon. He struggles, but Allura's grip is strong, and even when he manages to snag his claws along her arm, she makes no response of pain. Keith is manhandled into the healing pod long before he realizes where he is or who his friends are.

He recognizes Lance, though, breathes in his scent while he's trapped in some terrible device. Whimpers against Lance's cheek when the whisper reaches him, “You better come back out of there.”

The world turns from milky white to darkness, with only the hum of the pod and the hum of his veins to warn him he's still alive.

 

 

 

Keith basks underneath warm sunlight. He winces as the rays hit his skin, expecting to feel the prick of quintessence, but instead there's only a gentle blossom of comfort. He blinks into the light, wiping his eyes until the yellow glare focuses into something more concentrated and he can make out the scenery. He's standing on a grassy hill, though the blades are a faint shade of pink rather than green, and that's what cues him in onto the fact he's dreaming.

He hears a laugh, light and airy, and Keith turns to see Lance in the distance. He has his arms thrown around Hunk and Pidge, and the other two share a look of cheerfulness that makes Keith's heart ache for them. He wonders where in the timeline of their journey that this moment is intended to take place. Is it after they save the universe? Is it a time where there is only peace and companionship left to fuel the galaxies, rather than the hate and anger that Zarkon spreads? Or is it in the blissful ignorance before it all began? Before they were chosen for a journey that reaches far beyond their capabilities, the weight of responsibility all above their heads and pushing them down...

Keith makes his way over cautiously. Pidge glances over their shoulder, peering over Lance's arm, and catches sight of him. Their gaze is curious, one eyebrow quirked upwards, but then they turn to listen to Lance. Ears flicking forward, he tries to hear what Lance is saying, but can't quite make out the words, so he edges closer.

But even when he's right behind the trio as they make their way down the hill, he still can't understand the words being said. Pidge glances over their shoulder again, and then their eyes widen in surprise, and... fear? They tug at Lance's sleeve, and Lance whirls. Suddenly, Keith is flat on his back on the ground, and Lance is on top of him, arm tucked under Keith's chin to pin him.

Lance's face is screwed up in anger, twisted from the careful, kind expressions Keith has grown accustomed to as they fall asleep in each other's arms or the scared expression he last memorized as Lance pleaded for Keith's life. He seems to be shouting something, but all Keith can hear is a ringing in his ears, and Lance's words can no audible form. Lance straddles his hips to keep him down, and tugs Keith up by the collar of his shirt, still talking heatedly.

Keith's ears flatten back, and he shakes his head frantically. “I don't—I can't hear you?”

Confusion blooms over Lance's expression. He says something, but Keith just looks at him with a distressed expression. He blinks at him, and Lance's face shifts from one of puzzlement to panic. Slowly, the silence resolves itself into sound, and Keith finally can hear Lance calling out, “ _Keith! Keith!_ ”

“Lance?” Keith manages, the sound sticking in his throat. Lance releases him, letting out a soft distressed noise, and Keith thuds against the ground. He blinks up at him, unsure of how to process the reactions. The sky is dark now, filled with stars, and Keith's not entirely sure when that happened, but he doesn't question it.

The scene shifts as soon as he tries to focus on Lance again, and now they're curled together, legs tangled underneath a heavy blanket while the stars twinkle down at them. Encased in starlight and the warmth of the blanket and Lance, Keith's chest tightens, overwhelmed with the comfort of it all. With a look of adoration, Lance brushes his fingertips over Keith's cheek, and Keith feels the purr rumble through him before he can stop it.

Lance laughs again, a soft chuckle, and pulls Keith closer so that he's snuggled up against his shoulder. He breathes in deep, comforted by Lance's scent, and nuzzles ever-closer, curling his fingers into Lance's shirt. Lance buries his nose in Keith's hair, brushing his lips over the base of Keith's ears while his whispers like prayers remind Keith that he's alive and breathing and loved.

It takes a handful of heartbeats for Lance to start singing, some soft song from a memory of home.

Keith smiles into Lance's t-shirt and before long, they're trading lazy kisses, and Keith's whole body tingles pleasantly with the thrum of his purr, repeating Lance's name until he's ingrained into his bones and pulses through his blood. They shift until Keith is hovering over Lance, chests pressed together as Lance's breathing lifts him ever-slightly. Keith is in the middle of nibbling gently at Lance's jaw, and drinking in the soft sigh of pleasure from the boy, when Lance dissolves into stardust.

The dream changes again, and now Keith is standing before a full-length mirror. He stares at himself: hair matted, body weary, clothes torn. His ears twitch nervously out of a rat's-nest of hair, and he spins to inspect his back, where he expects to see the scars of the whip and knives and torture, but instead it's smooth. The quintessence, he realizes, when he was dropped in the pool. Keith looks himself over, but the only scars which remain are the claw marks down his forearms.

He's not sure if he likes that, but then again, he's aware this is a dream. He's not completely sure how conscious of his own body he is when he never got to look at it before he... fell asleep? Why is he dreaming? Is... is he dead? He's not sure. Keith scowls at his reflection, and sees something behind him in the mirror that makes him whirl.

Lance snakes his arms around Keith's waist with a half-smirk. He runs his hands over Keith's back, ghosting up his spine, but when Lance opens his mouth to speak, Keith notices the glint of his canines, elongated and sharp. Keith pulls back, uncertain. _Not Lance, not Lance_ , his body screams, and Keith backs up until he hits the mirror.

Lance gaze softens into concern. “What's wrong, Keith?” he says, and his voice digs against Keith's skull the way Haggar's did.

“No, no, no,” Keith whimpers, shuddering and pressing harder up against the mirror. “No, stay away!” he cries, but Lance laughs—his laugh, the carefree tickle of wind chimes and ocean waves. It scrapes across Keith's mind, tearing his thoughts to shreds, and rips through his sanity. He lets out a high whine, and tries to bolt away, but suddenly there are hands reaching through the mirror, clawed and accompanied by the burn of quintessence where they make contact.

Keith cries out, pleads for Lance to stop or help him; he's not sure which. The hands pin him in place, blood beading out of the pricks where he's held and trickling down. He hears the drips hit the floor while Lance makes his slow approach, savoring Keith's fear.

Almost tentatively, Lance reaches out to caress Keith's neck, appreciative in his movements. He runs the pad of his thumb over Keith's bottom lip, and Keith jerks his head forward to bite it, but Lance is faster. He pulls back, making a _tsking_ sound, and then Keith's head is jerked by a hand pulling hard on his hair. Lance's hand returns, running gently along the curve of Keith's neck, and he hovers over the pulse point, a gentle pressure that has Keith's heart pounding against his ribcage.

He swallows hard. Lance watches the bob of his Adam's apple.

And then, teeth flashing, he lunges.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: panic attacks, violence, blood, torture (whipping, quintessence), mentions/acceptance of death


	5. Night Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to update this two days ago but oops that's what happens when you go outside and socialize

“ _There was beauty in the idea of freedom, but it was an illusion. Every human heart was chained by love.”_

\- _Lady Midnight_ by Cassandra Clare

 

Keith's entire body jerks when he awakes. He sucks in air, fingers pushing desperately at the walls of the healing pod until he manages to get it to open. In the dark of the room, he can't see where he's going as he stumbles forward, but someone's there to catch him before he trips down the stairs. “Keith, Keith,” he hears Lance's hushed voice, now devoid of the dark magic of his dreams. “It's okay, Buddy, I got you.”

For a moment, Keith tries to pull away, the image of Lance trying to tear out his throat brought to the forefront, but as Lance squeezes him into one of the tightest hugs Keith has ever experienced, the nightmare fades out. “You're safe,” he breathes. “We're alive, and you're okay. I was so scared you wouldn't wake up.”

“Have you been waiting?” Keith asks as he buries his nose into Lance's shirt, the edge of his jacket tickling his cheek.

“Of course,” Lance says, hands automatically going to Keith's hair, where they take up their usual ministrations of petting.

Keith feels a purr vibrate in his throat, but swallows it in order to ask, “In the dark?”

“The dark?” Lance echoes, and it's at this moment that Keith finally realizes what's happened. He blinks, definitely blinks, so it's not like he's been keeping his eyes closed the entire time, and the healing pods emit the same blue glow of all Altean tech. Now that he tries to focus on it, the darkness isn't stationary—it shifts and stutters and maybe isn't even darkness at all, just a vague sense of lacking.

“I c-can't see,” Keith stutters out, as if he's surprised he said the words aloud. “Lance, I-I..." He swallows. "I'm blind.” When the admission finally ghosts over his lips, Keith takes in a shuddering breath. All resolve seems to go out of him, and he resigns himself to this fact, filing it away as something he'll just have to deal with. But when he looks towards where he _thinks_ Lance is, and realizes that he has no actual clue except for the arms holding him in place, he has to bite his lip to keep from breaking.

Lance seems to be processing. Keith feels him shift away and grasp his face between his hands. “Keith?” he says, and Keith imagines him with an expression of intent and concern, eyes searching. But Keith can't see him, and the tears start to fall before he can stop them. “Oh, Keith,” Lance breathes, and pulls him close again. They sink to the ground like that, while Keith clutches onto Lance because right now Lance is his only anchor to the world. He's lost, otherwise.

They stay like that while Keith lets the sudden panic attack run its course. Lance lets him fall apart in his arms, while he lets himself feel relief and safety and hope again, all while the new monster of blindness lingers over his head. Keith keeps his eyes closed, because if he does, he can pretend just for a little bit, that everything is okay—that he and Lance escaped and they're both absolutely fine.

But when he finally sniffles and pulls away from Lance's chest, the full weight of his condition hits him. “I'll have to resign as a paladin,” his voice shudders. He hiccups. “Y-you... should pilot Red.”

He feels Lance brush his hair away from his face, and his hand lingers on Keith's cheek. “As flattered as I am that you trust me with Red, we should talk to the others. Besides, you need food and real sleep.”

Keith nods slowly, and nuzzles against the hand on his cheek while Lance helps him up. Lance takes his hand, and tugs him forward softly, but Keith stays rooted in place. “I—uh—I d-don't know w-where to go?” He swallows. “I'm scared, Lance.”

He hears Lance shift, and judging by the movement of his own arm connected to him, Lance is moving to stand beside him. An arm snakes around his waist, and Keith jumps slightly, not expecting it. Lance's hand curls into the curve of his hip, guiding with soft pressure. They make slow progress, Lance directing when to be mindful of steps or turns in hallways. Keith's steps are hesitant, unsure, and the halls he once knew so well are now foreign to him. At one point, he would have claimed that he could find his way through the castle in his sleep, but now it seems he was all talk.

He lets Lance bring him... well, somewhere. He _thinks_ they're in one of the bigger rooms, either the lounge or the training room or dining hall, judging by the airflow and echo of their footsteps, but he's honestly not one hundred percent on that. He's not one hundred percent on anything anymore. “Stop,” Lance orders gently. “Stay here.” Keith hears the scrape of a chair against the floor, and then Lance is back at his side to guide him into it. Dining hall then, probably. “I'm going to go get the others, okay?” Lance mutters, fingers ghost over Keith's shoulder.

Keith can only nod and try not to cry again.

He draws his knees up slowly, conscious of hitting them on the table, and wraps his arms around himself in the chair. He's never felt so helpless. Part of him wishes Haggar had just killed him. Then he wouldn't have to deal with his entire life being flipped around. Somehow, she's torturing him still, even when she's light years away. Keith whimpers into his knees.

But then the guilt hits him, too. It can't have been easy for them to rescue him and Lance, and even if he's mad at Shiro for not listening, he can't blame him. He knows Shiro too well, the self-sacrificing bastard, and probably had a rescue planned from the moment Keith and Lance went into that mission. And of course, if he was dead, Lance would probably personally sacrifice his soul to a demon just to bring Keith back and kill him in person for leaving him alone.

He hears something, the telltale shuffling of fabric, and his ears prick forward towards the sound even though he doesn't uncurl from his position. Suddenly there's warmth barreling into him, and Keith flails to keep from toppling and nearly tumbles from the chair. Someone's pressing their face into his shoulder. Judging by the size, it's Pidge. “Keith, you're awake!” they sniffle into his shoulder.

“Is it just you here?” Keith asks, letting Pidge cling to him.

Pidge pulls back, and Keith presumes they're regarding him with some level of confusion. “Just... me,” they confirm, and Keith turns his head away barely, trying to hide his face by blindly looking in the opposite direction of their voice. He's weak he's weak he's weak.

“Lance didn't tell you,” he says and it comes out more of a statement than a question.

“I—I ran off before he could say much,” Pidge admits, and their hand reaches up to rest on Keith's shoulder. “What—”

Keith swallows the hard lump, wills his body into submission even though he feels sick. “I can't see.”

“You can't...” Pidge echoes, and trails off. Their hands come up to his cheek, and Keith flinches, not expecting it, but he lets them turn his head towards them. “You can't—Shit, you're not kidding, are you? Fuck, Keith, _fuck_ ,” Pidge whispers, and then their breath hitches and they press their wet cheeks to Keith's in a sloppy hug. “It's okay,” they sniffle. “We'll—we'll figure something out.”

By the time Keith hears someone else come in, Pidge has crawled into Keith's lap and they've been holding onto each other in loose circles for the past few minutes at least. Pidge stopped crying, but they stay like that. As terrible as Keith feels right now—as much as he craves to leap from the airlock into the void of space without Red to save him this time—he's also grateful for the warmth.

His gaze flicks towards the sound of approaching footsteps, even though his eyes are useless. “Who is that?” he asks into Pidge's hair, and they shift to look up.

“It's Hunk,” they report, unfurling from Keith's lap.

Now that Hunk is closer, he can hear him breathe, a bit rushed and hard because he probably came running as soon as he heard Keith was awake, knowing him. In his mind's eye, he can see the look of concern on Hunk's face, but then again... maybe he's not concerned at all now that Keith is out of the healing pod. Maybe he's just happy, and smiling brightly. Keith doesn't know and it kills him a little inside. He misses so much, not having his sight. He never prided himself on being social, but now there's so many nuances of conversation and body language that he can't read, and he feels like he's missing a vital part of human interaction.

“Hunk,” Pidge starts in a whisper. They probably intend for Keith not to hear, but with his Galra senses at the forefront, they'd have to try much harder to avoid his ears. “Hunk, Keith is blind.”

He hears Hunk suck in a breath, and in a rushed disbelieving huff, he asks, “Seriously?” There's a pause. “Man, that sucks. A lot. Like that's the worst.” He hears Hunk approach, and steels himself for the touch on his shoulder that apparently accompanies his friends' approaches, but instead starts when he feels Hunk's hand on his knee. Swiftly, Hunk pulls his hand away and begins apologizing. “Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. How, um, are you holding up?”

Keith's ears flick back, wary but not fearful. He turns away from Hunk's voice, because it's easier to pretend he's okay when he's not blatantly searching for that which he can't see. “I'm... It's... Not good,” he finally confesses, hands curling into the fabric of his suit on his legs. He lets go when he hears it rip under his claws, and breathes out a curse.

“Hey, Man, it's okay,” Hunk soothes, drawing Keith's hands from his lap and holding them in his larger ones. “It'll be okay.”

And suddenly Keith is crying. He tastes the salt on his tongue. Something about Hunk, the way his voice holds absolute sincerity, demands honesty and exudes compassion. He allows a few sobs to break out of his chest while Hunk squeezes his hands gently. When he finally gets his breathing back under control, he gives Hunk's palms a squeeze back, and Hunk yelps.

“Sorry!” Keith squeaks and yanks his hands back, holding them to his chest. “I—shit—Allura! I hurt her yesterday, didn't I?” On top of everything else, guilt settles deep into his gut, twisting and angry.

“That wasn't yesterday,” Pidge supplies from somewhere nearby. “That was a week ago. You were in the pod for a week, Keith. We started to worry.”

“Allura—”

“Allura is fine,” Hunk coos, drawing Keith's hands from where he holds them close to his body and smoothing his fingers over the knuckles. He makes sure to stay clear of the claws, though, and Keith whimpers before he can help it.

“Indeed, I am,” comes the voice of the woman in question, and Keith hears the footsteps of others. “Keith, how are you? Lance told us about your—condition.”

Lance's scent hits Keith before he processes who composes the approaching group. It's different, slightly, clear and fresh compared to the stagnant grime of the Galra cell, but it's still Lance. He doesn't jump when Lance's fingers card through his hair, searching until he brushes over the base of Keith's ears and Keith relaxes into his hand, the purr rumbling through him before he remembers where he is and who he's with.

Keith cuts it off with a stutter, and feels himself flush. It's Allura's surprised giggle that breaks the silence threatening to stretch. “That is new,” she observes, and then sobers. “Though there seems to be some things we did not know about you previously, Keith.” Keith presses his lips in a thin line, bracing for the rejection, bracing him to be severed from Red when Allura lands the killing blow. But instead, her voice softens into something soothing, “But we will discuss that later. For now, you should rest. We can't have one of our paladins out of commission for too long.”

“Especially with the target we painted on our backs with that rescue mission,” Pidge pipes in. “But that was _awesome_. Fucking scary, but _awesome_.”

Keith waits for the usual scolding from Shiro, calling Pidge out on their cursing so blatantly in front of Allura, but it doesn't come. “Princess—” Keith begins. “I can't—I can't be a paladin, not like this.”

“We will talk later,” Allura states. Firm. Final. “But I'm not kicking you out.”

Keith feels uncertainty turn his veins to ice, a completely different torment in comparison to the blaze of quintessence. There are still traces of a faint ache, meaning even after a week in the healing pod, he still has some of it in his system, a dull reminder of hours of his life he wishes he could forget. “I want Lance to pilot Red,” he says softly but steadily. “Shiro can help him tame her.”

Lance's fingers still in Keith's hair, and there's a heavy pause. Keith hears multiple intakes of breath stutter, and then Pidge mutters grimly, “I don't think Shiro's going to be helping anyone with anything anytime soon.”

“Pidge!” Allura scolds harshly, and Keith can easily imagine the unapologetic shrug of Pidge's shoulder... But he can also easily imagine the expression of guilt when they know they've taken it a step too far. Part of him bristles that he doesn't know, and now that Hunk has released his hands, he balls them into fists.

“Where is Shiro?” Keith half-growls, wanting answers.

“Shiro is...” Hunk starts, and trails off into silence, obviously not finishing this train of thought.

“We'll talk about that later, too,” Allura says curtly.

“In the meantime,” Coran speaks for the first time since he came into the room, and that answers who Keith heard as the third set of footsteps when Lance and Allura got there. “We're glad to have you back, M'boy. Both of you.”

Lance shifts, withdrawing his hand to brush it down Keith's neck, a soft indication of his intention. The whisper in Keith's ear doesn't scare him the way it should have, and he's grateful for Lance's consideration, even in the slightest of things. “Coran brought food,” he says softly. “Do you want me to help you eat?”

“I...” he says, and feels the shame of being so helpless weigh down of him. He wraps his arms around himself, as if shrinking away from the situation at hand will make it better. He hates the pity he can feel in the others' gazes on him. Keith doesn't need to see to know how pathetic he is, and it's a feeling that drags him back into that room where he spent so many hours praying for freedom.

“Come on,” Lance murmurs sweetly, and shifts back. Keith hears Lance shoo someone out of the way (probably Pidge, since they often require shooing) and then the drag of a chair on the floor as Lance scoots it closer. “Here,” Lance says, and then: “Open.”

But Keith doesn't move. Instead he squirms away from where he can smell a spoonful of goo, and mutters, “This is degrading.”

“You need to eat,” Lance sighs, but then Keith hears his voice directed elsewhere. “Hey, guys, can you leave? We'll work everything out tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Allura says instantly. “Hunk, Pidge, let's go work on that partnered form.”

“Oh, sure,” Hunk says, cheerful. Then, softer: “Welcome back, Keith.”

“I'll take my leave,” Keith hears Coran say, and then footsteps as he moves away.

He hears the tiptap of Allura's shoes, but then something is barreling into him again. He doesn't jump as much this time, but Pidge's tight hug is still a surprise. “I'm glad you're home,” Pidge breathes against his shoulder, and then they're gone, trailing after Hunk and Allura.

He's suddenly unbelievably grateful for all of them.

And then Lance, who pulls Keith's hands from where they grip his upper arms, and threads their fingers together. “The others are gone,” he reports, voice soothing. “Just me. Now, please, Keith. I know everything's a mess, but we'll get through this. One thing at a time. Right now, just let me help you?”

It's a terrifying admission of how desperate and dependent he is on Lance now, but he nods. Lance trusted him—had only unfailing faith when Keith's Galra form was revealed and continues to hold onto that faith. It's time Keith did the same for Lance. Slowly, he nods.

 

 

 

“Just yell if you need something, okay?” Lance instructs kindly. “I might not come, but someone will. Don't be embarrassed about it. We're a team. We're going to help you.”

“You almost sound like Shiro,” Keith says dryly, laying on his back, stiff-as-a-board, in his bed.

“I didn't hear a 'Yessir,'” Lance quips back.

Keith feels his brow furrow automatically in frustration, a habit in response to Lance's teasing, but he doesn't turn to towards the other because he's not even really sure where he is anymore. If he's still in the room. “Yeah, okay,” he finally mutters, feeling dejected.

“Good,” Lance affirms. “Get some rest, Keith. Goodnight.”

Keith hears the slide of the door, almost silent but a soft _shhk_ in contrast to the hum of the castle. “W-wait—” he splutters before he can help himself, and turns frantically to see if Lance stays, but then he can't see, and he curses. “Are—are you there? Lance? _Come back_...”

“I'm here; I'm here,” Lance reassures, and Keith feels the bed shift under a new weight. “What's wrong?”

“Can... you stay here?” he turns away, trying to hide the embarrassed blush, but this is _Lance_. They slept curled in each other's arms in the Galra prison, and yet this is different. This isn't so desperate, isn't so last-resort, and Keith doesn't want to drag Lance down. He doesn't want to tie Lance to the broken mess that he is. Lance doesn't deserve that; he deserves better. And yet, the selfish, scared part of Keith wins over. “Please? I don't want to be alone.”

Lance seems to contemplate for a moment, but then brushes a finger against forehead, dusting away stray hairs. Keith twitches in response, tense and not expecting the gesture. “Sorry,” Lance murmurs. “Let me go change, okay? I'll be back in like five minutes. You'll be okay while I'm gone?”

Keith nods, and feels his head brush against where Lance's fingers still linger near his brow. Lance plants a kiss on his forehead. “Be right back.” And then the bed moves as he rises, and Keith hears the door click shut behind him.

It's not a long wait, but the hum of the Castle of Lions reminds Keith just barely of the white noise of the Galra ship, and makes his skin crawl. It's different, and he especially can tell with his Galra hearing now: subtly encouraging with rather than the ominous heartbeat of the Galra ship, only interrupted by the passing of guards or the screams of prisoners. There's a very distinct disparity between the sounds, but somehow his mind ever wanders back to the cell, the room where he bled and nearly died, the growl of Green underneath him during their rescue.

Perhaps it's not the hum of the castle Keith fears, but his own thoughts. Certainly, that was why he did his best to forget his years with the Galra empire before. But now it's worse: the wounds are fresh and revitalized, salt poured on sensitive cuts, and damage permanently done. Keith is forever going to be weak, from now on. He'll never be a paladin again. They'll keep him here until they find some relatively habitable planet to leave him on. Part of him says that Allura would never do that, but he can't shut off his own mind while it prepares for the worst.

Keith hears the door open, and a fresh scent washes over him. “Lance?” he asks into the nothingness.

The bed shifts, and there's a body nudging at Keith, coercing him into moving over. “Yeah, it's me. Sorry. I'm getting used to this too, still. I'm trying. C'mere.”

Lance curls himself around Keith, nuzzling into his neck, breath tickling Keith's cheek. He relaxes in Lance's embrace, lets some of the anxiety wash off of him, and Keith shifts to curl an arm around Lance's waist. The other hums happily, pressing a lazy kiss to Keith's collarbone. “I know you are,” Keith replies, tangling their legs together.

“You're so warm,” Lance murmurs. “Not fair.”

Keith melts a little further into Lance's chest, but his head still swims with far too many things. “Lance,” he says, serious, and Lance mutters a little _hmm?_ against his skin. “Lance, I don't know what to do.”

“With what?” As if sensing the oncoming panic, a hand sneaks its way through Keith's hair, idly fidgeting with the short fur on the back of one of his ears. Lance doesn't complain, despite the fact he hasn't actually showered since he got out of the pod (he's been cleaned up, but he and Lance determined it was too awkward and too tiresome to deal with today).

Keith takes a deep breath. “With Voltron. I want to be a paladin still, but I can't. I wanna fly Red again, but I can't do that either. I'm useless and pathetic and I can't do shit without being babied. I want to know what's going on with Shiro. I want to help, but I'm the one that needs help all the time. And—and I want... you. But I don't think I can have that either.”

Lance lets out a low whistle. “Okay, in order. First of all, you can still fly Red. We've flown the lions blind before. It will just be a little more literal for you from now on.”

“Shiro was always way better at that then the rest of us—”

“You'll just have to practice,” Lance assures. “I'll help you.”

“That's the thing—”

“Ah, ah,” Lance says. “In order. Now, as for Shiro. From what I saw, he had a panic attack of sorts when he saw you. I think it triggered some Galra thing. We've kept him alive. He's eating and stuff, but he's basically locked himself in a spare bedroom in one of the other wings of the castle. I think he's worried about going berserk on us.”

Keith bites his cheek. “I don't know if I can control my appearance as well as before. The quintessence might have done permanent damage.”

“And that's fine,” Lance states, like there's no room for argument. “We'll deal with it. Shiro will get used to it, I'm sure. You're not them, and he's blind if he can't see that. It's internal response reacting before he can process what he's actually seeing.” Lance pauses for a minute. “Yeah I totally pulled that entire last sentence right out of my ass.”

Keith snorts, despite the fact he's trying to keep focused. Lance tends to derail conversations at the drop of a hat, and sometimes Keith is grateful for it, but right now he wants to talk about what he's trying to deal with. And wow, that would be a first, because Keith has never wanted to work things out in such a civil way before. Normally, it would be use the knife first and ask later, but Lance probably wouldn't like the knife bit and also Lance is hard to catch when he wants to be.

“I just... Lance, I'm _blind_. I'm broken. I'm a fucking mess. I'm tearing the team apart.”

“Is this point three?”

“You deserve better than me.”

“Fuck you,” Lance spits suddenly. “Never. Never, you hear me? I know you can't see me to check if I'm lying, but you can hear me and I know that. Listen. Does it sound like I don't believe in you Keith? That I don't believe in us? Does this sound like someone who isn't so hopelessly in love with you that they'd be willing to _die_ for you? Answer me.”

Keith remembers back in the cell—the intensity of his gaze when he bristled with emotion, and now Keith can't rely on his eyes to find that expression. But Lance is right, he can hear it. He can hear it in the desperate gasp on the words _believe in us_ ; he can hear it in the breathless whisper of _hopelessly in love_ ; and he can hear it in the crack of Lance's voice _willing to_ die _for you_.

“No,” Keith finally answers, biting his lip to keep from crying. Overwhelming, that's what it is. Lance consumes him in a way that somehow raises him higher than he's ever been before. “But—I-I can't even take care of myself, Lance. You don't deserve that burden. You deserve to be happy and go home one day and see your family. You could find someone else—someone who's not going to just keep you grounded. You deserve to fly. That's what you always wanted, wasn't it?”

Lance takes a sharp intake of breath. His next words are slow, deadly low, and he tightens his grip around Keith to an almost crushing hold. “How long have you known me?”

“Since... the Garrison?” Keith grits out.

“No, how long have you _really_ known me?”

“Since that day out in the desert, when Blue chose you and we all ended up here,” Keith says more firmly.

“And since then, have I ever backed down from a challenge?”

Keith breathes air out through his nose. It's a losing battle, now that Lance has brought that point up. But he still has a chance to turn the tides: guilt. “...My life is more than just something to conquer, Lance.”

“You're blind, not terminal!” Lance cries, shifting back some so he's not _quite_ screeching into Keith's ear.

“I might as well be!” Keith growls back. “I'm not a paladin like this. I'm a weak link in Voltron. I need to be replaced. I'm no better than a broken arm.”

“Don't you fucking pun,” Lance hisses. “You can't say you're more than a challenge but still nothing more than a setback to the rest of us. You aren't. I _know_ you're more than that, Keith. But just because you're blind, that doesn't mean that's all that you are. You're still brave and caring and worthy. After what you've been through, don't you deserve something too? Don't you deserve to be loved? And not just by me, but by the entire team? We're not going to throw you out like some ragdoll to the streets just because something went wrong on a mission. You. Are. Valuable.”

“Keith?” a timid voice raises from the doorway, and while he was arguing with Lance, they must have missed the slide of the door opening. “I was on my way back from checking on Shiro,” Pidge explains. “I... heard screaming, and then Hunk was worried. Are you alright?”

“Tell him we're keeping him, no matter what,” Lance spits, and the sound isn't directed at him, so Keith assumes he's facing the door. Pidge makes a squeak of surprise, apparently not realizing that Lance had been there too.

Keith growls, inhuman and rumbling in the air between him and Lance. “And what about what I want?”

“When have you ever not wanted to _fly_?” Lance hisses.

“I—” Because he can't actually argue with that. Keith's heart already clutches painfully at the thought of not being able to fly Red again. “...Never.”

“Right. We're not giving up on you. I'm not giving up on you. So you shouldn't either.” Lance pulls him closer again, shameless even when Hunk and Pidge are presumably staring. The next words are whispered against Keith's skin, a promise meant only for him. “I love you, Keith. There's nothing you can do to change that. You can leave and break my heart and that fact still won't change. We're a team. You and me. You're allowed to need help with things. You're allowed to need time. And you're allowed to need me.”

Tears sting Keith's eyes again, and this time, they do fall, and Lance kisses the tracks they leave on his cheeks, and when he presses their faces together, Keith realizes Lance is crying too.

“Can we... um?” Hunk starts awkwardly from the door.

“Come on in,” Keith relents, letting a weary sigh escape: defeat and relief all at once.

He hears Pidge scuttle forward immediately, and then Keith yelps when a tangle of limbs flops across his and Lance's legs, and someone's foot jabs painfully against his shin as their assailant settles across their bodies. “Why the fuck are you so bony, Lance,” Pidge growls, shoving hard against the boy who's currently clinging onto Keith and thus yanks Keith to the side, nearly tipping them all off the bed completely.

There's a thud, and something soft hits Keith in the forehead. “I got the spare blankets,” Hunk reports, and suddenly Lance is surging back towards Keith and they go rolling in the opposite direction towards the wall.

“Ow, Hunk!” Lance complains when he rolls completely over Keith and hits some stray limb on the wall. Their tight hold from earlier is broken now, though Keith still has an arm trapped underneath Lance.

“Stop squirming!” Pidge hisses, and they must hit Lance, because there's another hiss of pain after the sound of skin hitting skin.

“You demon!” Lance accuses, and the pillow under Keith's head disappears as Lance tugs it away to use as a weapon. “You're going to get it!”

“That's my pillow,” Keith points out, flexing his fingers so his claws barely prick Lance's side in retaliation. Lance barks a noise of protest and hits Keith on the chest with the pillow.

“Rude!” Lance argues, and sits up to attack Pidge, who screeches. Keith feels an elbow or knee or something dig into his hip, and Pidge is crawling over his legs to escape Lance's wrath, giggling like a maniac, but he just lets it happen at this point. There's not really any stopping the two of them when they're like this until someone's victorious. Pillow fights, Keith has learned over the past three years, are not to be taken lightly.

But then everyone freezes, going statue still, at the sound of the door opening. Keith feels the air shift. He smells fear, strong and sharp against his tongue, and Lance hisses an intake of breath, scrambling over Keith in haste to get off the bed.

“Shiro—”

“Shiro?” Keith is sitting up in an instant, eyes automatically searching for the other man despite their uselessness. “Shiro?” he calls again. He smells fear, and hears panting. “Shiro, I—”

“Stop!” Allura's voice suddenly cuts through the tension in the air, and Keith hears the beginnings of a struggle. “Shiro, stop it! It's me. That's Keith, not one of them. Get it together!” There's the sharp crack of a slap, and Keith winces even though he's not entirely sure what happened.

“What's going on?” he demands, and no one replies. The sound of a growl permeates the room, and Keith's not entirely sure if it was him who made that noise or Shiro.

“I'll get him out of here,” Allura says calmly, though she's breathless. “Don't worry about it. Stay here. Together. Just with less noise this time. I think he thought someone was being attacked.”

There are quiet noises of affirmation from everyone except Keith, whose ears are too busy searching for traces of Shiro on the opposite side of the room. “Shiro... what-what happened?”

There's a heavy, somber silence that falls over the paladins while the door closes. Pidge lets out a breath they had been holding while Lance sucks in air. Hunk lets out a whimpering noise that rivals some of Keith's in the past. “Holy shit,” Pidge breathes.

Lance is suddenly on Keith—he smelled the onslaught of his scent just a heartbeat before his body is threatening to topple them both flat on the bed. Keith smells fear on him, bitter on Lance's skin. He's on Keith's lap, legs planted on either side of his hips, and smothering Keith's face into the crook of his neck while he holds him tight and breathes deep. Keith settles his hands on Lance's hips to steady him. “I don't understand,” he mumbles to Lance's shoulder.

“Shiro... fuck,” Pidge says. “That was _scary_. I've never seen him—ow! Lance!”

“Shut up,” Lance snarls, curling himself back around Keith, protective. “Shiro came in ready to attack,” Lance says in a more tempered voice. “He heard us playfighting and assumed the worst.”

“And I'm the worst,” Keith deadpans.

Lance doesn't reply, for a first. He's finally conceding to Keith that things aren't all fine. That things might never be fine.

“I don't think that,” Hunk says sincerely from where Keith thinks he's sitting on the floor next to the bed. “I think you're great. I just think Shiro needs time. I mean—I'm still... It's pretty spooky. Your eyes _glow_ , Man. And you have ears? Is it a cat thing, or what? I don't know! It's not—not normal. Not for humans at least. It's gonna take me a bit to adjust.”

“Bat, actually,” Pidge corrects. “I think they're closer to bats than to cats.”

Keith lets Lance cling to him, listen to the rush of Lance's blood under his pulse point that presses next to his ear. “Let's just... go to bed.”

Lance peels himself away so Keith can shuffle back towards the wall, wrapping himself into a cocoon of a blanket. He feels one of Lance's arms loop over Keith's form, and Keith commandeers the other to use as a pillow since Lance stole his. At their feet, Pidge crawls back onto the bed and curls up, pulling one of the spare blankets over themselves. Keith presumes Hunk has made himself comfortable on the floor.

“I'm sorry,” Lance whispers, pressing a kiss to Keith's forehead.

Keith keeps his head down, nose buried in the blanket. “Not your fault.”

In the end, Keith didn't think any of his original issues were resolved that night. Lance is still stubbornly attached to him, sleeping peacefully while Keith counts the breaths that fan over his face: _34... 35... 36_.

Shiro's still—distraught, at the very least—at Keith's return.

_37... 38... 39._

The meeting tomorrow looms over him like the blade of a guillotine. Keith swims in his own uncertainty.

_40... 41... 41... 4..._

_..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: non-explicit panic attacks, uhhhhhhhhhhhhh violence? question mark? there's a few mentions/implied violence or blood but nothing too heavy.


	6. Night Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY  
> 17k chapter and would you believe it it's not the longest one

“ _Temper us in fire, and we grow stronger. When we suffer, we survive.”_

\- _City of Heavenly Fire_ by Cassandra Clare

 

Keith wakes up to Pidge curled up on his chest, head tilted into the dip of his armpit. Lance is splayed out, probably taking up most of the bed, and his leg is tossed over Pidge, pinning them down onto Keith while one of his arms is still trapped under Keith’s head. He can hear Hunk’s snoring from a little way off, and Keith floats in a sort of incoherent bliss before he realizes his eyes are open and he should be able to see but he can't. Reality crashes down around him, and suddenly Pidge’s weight is crushing him, too much, too much, too much.

Keith gasps, sucking in air, and shoves Pidge off him. They jolt awake, spluttering unhappy noises, and must hit Lance in their flailing, because Keith feels Lance yank his hand out from under Keith. “Jesus!” Lance cries, but Keith is far too close to having a panic attack to care. Then he’s being gathered into lanky arms, held against Lance’s chest. “Shh, shh, Keith. It's okay. It's okay. Breathe. Deep breath. There. It’s okay. Just breathe. Shh. You're safe. We're safe.”

“Whoa,” Pidge breathes. “I've never—Matt had anxiety sometimes, but this—”

“Isn't... even the... worst,” Keith pants, slowly coming back, and sends a broken, sad smile in the direction of Pidge’s voice.

He hears them take a steadying breath. “Keith—”

“Huh—What—What's going on?” Hunk suddenly starts awake.

“Uh...” Pidge begins.

“Nothing,” Keith says, biting back his emotions. “It's fine,” he adds a little too quickly. “I'm fine. Anyway, who wants to help me take a shower?”

“Eww,” Pidge groans, shuffling off the bed. “Gross.”

“I mean, I can?” Hunk offers.

“Nope, my boyfriend,” Lance huffs, pulling Keith tighter against his chest. “Go away. Shoo, shoo!”

“'Boyfriend,' huh?” Pidge hums, smug.

“Yeah, Lance,” Keith teases, glad the focus is shifting from him so he can attempt to swallow his nerves without anyone else noticing. “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, you,” Lance fires back, tugging on Keith's ears just enough to make him hiss softly. “I didn't spend all that time cuddling with you for us not to be dating.” Suddenly somber, Lance lowers his voice. “Besides, you're stuck with me, alright?”

“Okay, I'm out before you two get sappy again, and I _definitely_ don't want to see Keith naked. Peace.” There's quick footsteps as Pidge bolts from the room.

“Sure you don't need any help?”

“Do _you_ want to see me naked?” Keith asks in Hunk's general direction.

“N-no! I just—thought I'd offer?”

“You already offered,” Lance growls, then softens. “Thanks, Hunk. Really. But I got it.”

“No problem?” Hunk still sounds a little nervous about Lance biting his head off, but he sounds sincere all the same.

Lance waits until the door closes behind Hunk to help pull Keith from the bed, guiding him towards the connecting bathroom. “You okay with this?” he asks suddenly, while Keith is struggling out of the top half of his suit—not the same one that goes under his paladin armor, since it's not tattered to bits, so it's probably the one for the healing pods.

“I mean, not exactly,” Keith admits. “I trust you, but it's pitiful and embarrassing.”

“You can't even see my reactions.” Lance cuts himself off at the end of the sentence a little abruptly. “Sorry, I...”

“That's the point. I can't—I can't tell if you're...” He feels himself flush, skin too heated even though Lance has pulled the suit down so that it pools at his waist. “If you're... pleased?”

Lance chokes, and stutters out a breathless laugh. “Keith, who do you think put you in the healing pod suit in the first place?”

The realization hits Keith like a truck. Just let him die in a pool of quintessence now. His face burns, and he buries his head in his hands. “Fuck me,” he mumbles to his fingers.

“I mean...” Lance purrs, fingers linking around Keith's wrist to pull his hands back. “I'm not opposed.”

Keith lets out a whine, wishing he'd turn into a puddle right then and there.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Lance says, still in that dangerous tone. “You don't disappoint.”

Keith thinks he might have blacked out for a second or two. His heart jackhammers against his ribs because this is different from the hopeless kisses in the cell. Those were meaningful in the fact they wanted to share something before they died, but this Lance is full of promise, of things to come, and Keith is equally excited as he is _terrified_.

Keith tries to keep himself from shaking while Lance pulls the suit the rest of the way down, tugging Keith's feet up to leave Keith naked and hissing at the cold air on skin. Lance leads him to the shower with a gentle, “Watch your step.” There's not really enough room for both of them, but Lance follows him in anyway, and Keith resists leaning into him for warmth.

“Do... Do you mind if I strip, too?” Lance asks, voice catching awkwardly in his throat, and okay, maybe Keith isn't the only embarrassed one, but he can't tell for sure.

So that thought is exactly what he voices: “I mean... It's not like I could tell if you did.”

Lance coughs. “I—uh—think you might notice eventually.”

“Whatever,” Keith grunts, running his hands over his arms to try and fend off the chill creeping up his spine. Though that might be in part because of the nerves, and not only because of the air. “Go ahead.”

He listens to Lance step away, hears the shuffling of fabric as he peels the suit away from his body. When he returns to Keith's side, Keith can feel the warmth seeping off of him, and unconsciously shuffles forward. Lance's breath hitches in his throat. “I—heh—uh?” Lance stammers and then goes silent. “Y-you can feel your way a-around, if you—you'd like?”

Forget the cold, now Keith is burning. He can feel the flush race down his chest, and he makes a choked noise. “That—that—um—Lance—” But Keith's brain isn't really aiming for coherent thoughts after the implications of what Lance is saying.

Lance creeps closer, and Keith feels feverish heat off of him, too. Is... Is Lance just as much a mess as he is? Dammit, he wishes he could _see_. “Here,” Lance says, voice rough. He pulls Keith's hand up, rests it over the center of his chest, and Keith can tell he's blushing just by the warm flush to his skin, not to mention the heartbeat hammering just under Keith's fingers. “I'm all yours.”

“How—” Keith swallows hard. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears now, or is that Lance's? He can't tell. “How do you trust me so much?”

“You'll never hurt me,” Lance says. Firm, sure, and final—a tone he picked up after years of mocking Allura's orders.

“Shiro doesn't believe that.” Keith closes his fist just enough that his nails prick into Lance's skin, but not enough to draw blood. He hopes.

Lance's breath is stuttery under Keith's hand, and then he huffs. “Just _touch me_.”

Keith lets out a whine, and places his other hand on Lance's shoulder, marveling at the way Lance presses into his touch rather than flinching away. This is so different from the reaction Keith was expecting. Warm warm warm, skin under his fingers as he brushes over Lance's arm, his chest, his hip.

“Haaah,” Lance breathes suddenly, dropping his head onto Keith's shoulder when his claws, feather-light, splay over the skin just under his hipbone. “Sen... s-sensitive spot—” he manages before Keith strokes over it again and Lance goes breathless, voice cutting off into silence.

Keith presses in a little harder, thumbing over Lance's other hip with his other hand, and Lance whines, a half-broken moan caught between two pitches. “K-Keith—” Keith pulls back, removing his hands from Lance completely, and the other whimpers. “Keith—”

“I still need a shower,” Keith says, somehow managing to keep his voice level, though it feels like he's talking through syrup. “As... um, exciting as this is.”

“Y-you're telling me?” Lance fires back, incredulous and breathless at the same time, and Keith is very angry that he manages to sound so _hot_ despite it. Or maybe because of it. At this point, Keith is a mess and he doesn't know what's real anymore because he may or may not be dreaming.

“Fine, fine,” Lance concedes, when Keith screws up his face in the direction of his voice. “Shower now, fun later. Warning, water coming. You're not gonna go cat on me and run hissing from it, right?”

“Bat,” Keith reminds him.

“Point taken.” Lance brushes past him and Keith hears the water start running a moment before it hits his back and he practically jumps into Lance's arms.

“That’s fucking freezing!”

Lance reaches around Keith to put a hand in the water—Keith can hear the change in the sound pattern of droplets hitting around them. “It's not that bad,” Lance hums, other arm snaking around Keith's shoulder to steady him.

“It's _cold_ ,” Keith hisses.

“Alright, fine.”

He can hear the eye-roll in Lance's voice as he adjusts the temperature. Keith reaches out a blind, careful hand, until he can barely feel the droplets on his skin, and then recoils, hissing. “No.”

“It's warm!” Lance protests, flailing his free hand and spraying water. Keith jumps when a drop lands on his nose, and he resists the urge to sneeze from pure reaction.

“Not warm enough,” Keith states.

“Well it's gonna have to be,” Lance argues. “Because otherwise you're on your own. As much as I love you, I'm not gonna burn my skin off to help you wash behind your ears.”

Keith grumbles, but eases into the stream. He supposes Lance is right: the water is fine. It's not how he _likes_ it, but it will have to do. Keith ducks his head forward, wetting his hair down. A giggle from behind him makes him pull back, going a little too far and bumping into Lance's chest.

There's a light touch against the back of Keith's neck. “You have a little patch of fur down the nape of your neck,” he observes, running his fingers through aforementioned fur. “Why the fuck are you so cute. It's not fair.”

Keith crosses his arms, even though he's facing away from Lance. “I don't know where you are exactly, so this is me glaring at you. I'm glaring, right now. At you. You're shrinking back from my glare. It's intense and you're shrinking.”

Lance laughs. “Shampoo or body wash?” he asks, ignoring Keith's empty threats.

“I'm purple, not furry. Mostly.”

“I meant which one first, but you're only mostly purple now anyway.”

“What?” Keith tilts his head down automatically, and growls when he can't see anything.

“It gets spotty at your waist... Fades back into your—normal?—previous skin tone.”

“I—I must be trying to repress my Galra form without realizing?” Keith says, uncertain. “I'd been doing it for so long. It's like a muscle that you've been flexing for such a long time that you forget how to relax it. I'm not doing it on purpose, but the quintessence still hasn't completely... I don't know if I can ever go back to Keith as you know him.”

“Okay, don't talk in third person; it's creepy.” Keith hears a bottle open, and then Lance is massaging something into his scalp, running his fingers through Keith's hair to help with the tangles. “Might wanna close your eyes, just in a case.” Keith does as he's instructed. “Anyway, I don't think that's a problem. This is as much a part of you as you let it be, Keith. Just because you look like one of them doesn't mean that you are, but that doesn't mean to have to hide who you are either.”

Keith hums, torn between hiding under this blanket of depression, but Lance's fingers carding through his hair are borderline sinful, and Keith is melting into his touch.

“Think of it this way,” Lance continues. “You're something good that's come out of Zarkon's rule. Be proud of that. Own it.”

“But what if I'm not? Good, I mean.” Keith bites his lip.

But then Lance is working at the base of Keith's ears, and whatever other worries he had blend into the purr that pours out of him, loud enough to combat the beat of water from the shower.

“I'll help you later,” Lance says soothingly. “I think I might be able to help you relax. Shit—not like that—I mean, not unless you want to? My mom did yoga. I used to use a technique to help me fall asleep. It relaxes your muscles and your mind. We can try it later.”

Keith is too far caught up in a mixture of bliss and blatantly ignoring his problems to give a correct response, so instead he leans back into Lance's chest, rumbling them both with the purr. Lance plants a kiss on his head, apparently without thinking, because a moment later he's spitting out the taste of soap and Keith is laughing, lighter and freer than he has since he woke up from the healing pod.

 

 

 

“Here,” Lance says, offering his wrist to Keith. “You should be able to get something. It's your own soap.”

Keith leans forward until he bumps his nose against Lance, then scrunches up his face in response. He sniffs at Lance's skin, trying to pick up traces of the soap from their shower earlier. His hair is still wet against the nape of his neck, dripping onto a clean shirt that is hopefully his usual black (he's not entire sure he trusts Lance enough to let him pick out his wardrobe, but Keith didn't really have a choice).

“Basil,” Keith finally states, leaning back.

“I'm pretty sure the bottle said Parsley,” Lance hums thoughtfully.

“No. It's basil. Definitely basil. Aliens just don't know what basil is, so they called it parsley. I _know_ basil when I smell it, dammit.”

“If it's alien, I don't think it's actually basil, then,” Lance points out.

“It's basil, you fuck, let me have this.”

Lance's laugh tinkles against Keith's ears, and they prick forward unconsciously towards the sound. “Wait!” Lance suddenly hisses. “Shush!”

“You were the one making noise,” Keith fires back.

“ _Shush!_ ” Lance huffs, but Keith can hear the restrained smile in his voice. “Who just walked in the room?”

“Someone walked in?” Keith asks, and swivels his ears out to pick up any hints of sound. There's nothing. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You're messing with me. I didn't hear anything.”

“As you pointed out, I was making noise. You must have missed it. Try scenting them?” Lance plants his hands against Keith's knees, a steady support that implies he's being sincere.

“Is it Pidge? Did you just give it away?”

“...No,” Lance says a little too defensively. “ _Just try it_.”

Keith tilts his head up, breathing in deep. Lance's scent is the strongest, a close nexus of clean soap and faint vanilla and a faint dab of Altean cologne he managed to steal from Coran sometime earlier that year. The proximity makes it hard for him to focus on other things, Lance flooding his senses, but he can just make out the faint smoky scent of residual heat and sweat, body warmed for too long.

So that probably narrows it down to Hunk, who could have been working on his lion, or Pidge, whose tends to overheat themselves when they bury themselves under their tech (not to mention sometimes the inventions literally blow up in their face). But it's also possibly Coran, who's routine upkeep of the castle sometimes requires manual work. Keith frowns. “I need them to walk. I don't know the others' scents well enough yet, and you're too close.”

“You need to learn to distinguish the background even when there's someone or something taking up the foreground,” Lance says sagely. There's a snort from the mystery person at Lance's generally bullshit-sounding explanation.

“Pidge,” Keith answers.

“Guilty,” Pidge says, and pads over, footsteps lighter than Hunk's or Coran's. They lean over the other side of Keith's chair, hair brushing his shoulder. “How'd you tell?”

Keith scrunches up his nose. “You smell mechanical-y. Like heat.”

“Also guilty,” Pidge admits, though sounding entirely unapologetic. “I accidentally blew up the cloaking system I was trying to fix in Green. I think I overheated it during the rescue, and it was trying to run this entire time. I figured I'd let it cool down until after the meeting and then try again.”

“How... did you find us?” Lance asks quietly. Keith goes deadly silent next to him, as the hands on his legs snake upwards to thread through Keith's fingers, anchoring him to the present.

“We had a hard time picking up the origin point of the signal you implanted. The one on the ship. The communicator was supposed to give us a better pinpoint on where to track, but it wasn't like we were going in completely blind... This isn't really making sense, is it, Lance?”

“I have no fucking clue what you're talking about,” Lance confirms.

Keith lets out a breathy sigh, in place of a laugh.

“The little wire thing you put in the control ship. That's like... What's something you look for?”

“Diamonds? You know, like diamonds in the rough?”

“That means the diamond isn't cut yet, not that it's hidden. How many times have you watched Aladdin?”

There's a pause, in which Keith assumes Lance is rebooting. Suddenly, he howls: “My life is a lie!”

Keith hears Pidge's exasperated sigh. “ _Anyway_. Imagine you're looking for... I dunno, a very rare seashell that you can only find on one beach. If we had the communicator signal, we would have known what beach to look on, but without it, we only knew what planet. Needless to say, it took some searching.”

“Now I'm just sad,” Lance complains.

“I'm not good with similes,” Pidge huffs.

“That was a metaphor,” Keith points out dryly.

“You keep your English literature bullshit away from me,” Pidge growls in response.

“But you loved lit!” Lance cries.

“No, I loved lit _class_ because I could get away with pretending to write when I was actually coding a program to hack into the Garrison's main system.”

“How the fuck are you even real, Pidge,” Keith deadpans.

This time, when Lance's laugh threatens to drown out everything else, Keith manages to notice the footsteps before Lance can shush the chatter. Ignoring Lance's flailing (he's still holding Keith's hands, so Keith is inadvertently part of aforementioned flailing), he hones in on the sound: heavy steps, so not Allura, and the footfalls are too close together to match Coran's long stride.

“Hunk,” Keith says confidently.

“Nice!” Pidge whoops.

Lance makes an excited squealing noise. “Good job!”

Keith feels himself flush as the praise warms through him. Lance squeezes his fingers, gently, and Keith tries to hide his burning face by tilting his head away. He feels Lance vibrate with the chuckle, followed by a breath of, “Oh?”

Lance leans forward, lips brushing against Keith's temple. Pidge pretends to gag and recoils away, but Keith barely misses the absence of their warmth when Lance's breath is fanning over the base of his ears where they're most sensitive. “You did well,” he whispers, and drinks in Keith's reaction: the way he barely shudders, the way his skin heats, and the way whatever whimper of a response he was attempting catches hard in his throat. “Good Keith. _Good boy._ ”

Keith whines, a near-silent sound that tears at his throat more than anything else. “F-fuck, Lance,” he whimpers. He tries to duck his head down to hide, but instead his forehead collides with Lance's shoulder and stays there while Keith pulls in shallow pants.

Pidge blows a raspberry at the two of them from somewhere nearby. “You guys were fine before you went on that mission, but now you're all sappy and gross. _Why_.” They groan and Keith hears them flop across the table.

“Allura and Coran are on the way,” Hunk reports as the screech of a chair on the floor drags Keith back to reality.

“Aww, Hunk, you ruined the guessing game,” Lance complains, gently pulling himself away from the body leaning against him, and Keith has to take a second to regain some of his sanity to be able to hold himself up.

“I know the difference—” Keith grumbles, amazed he can speak through the haze in his brain and the husk of his voice, but Lance cuts him off.

“Keith was doing _so wonderfully_ , too. Absolutely _perfect_.”

Keith chokes.

“I suppose it can't be helped,” Lance sighs dramatically, but Keith can hear the shit-eating smirk in his voice.

“How unfortunate,” mumbles Pidge, decidedly flat.

“Yes, well, we'll just have to wait until next time,” Lance announces.

Keith growls, mostly because it's involuntary, but also because he's getting tired of being teased when Lance is so very _there_ , close and touching and Keith can smell him, just barely sweet.

“Lance, it is literally so easy for you to just _not_ ,” Pidge grumbles.

Keith lets out a sigh, a little exasperated. “Hunk?” he pleads. “Help me out here?”

Hunk returns with a weary sigh of his own, and caves instantly, probably because he pities Keith. “Lance is an exhibitionist—”

“Hunk!” Lance cries, betrayed.

“—Trust me; I roomed with him.”

Mimicking Lance's earlier response, Keith hums a little, “Oh?” He runs a hand up Lance's arm, keeping in contact until he reaches Lance's chin and can draw him closer. Lance follows the touch, and Keith feels him swallow hard, just under his fingertips. Cheeks brushing, he murmurs, “Would you like it, then, if I took you right here, right now? With the others watching? And imagine if Allura walked in—”

Lance makes a strangled noise, and conveniently (apparently luck is on Keith's side), the tell-tale sound of Allura's footsteps make their way in the room. “Lance!” Pidge growls in response to his flustered panicking, and Keith hears the shove of the chair across the floor and skin-on-skin contact which implies Pidge lunged to hit him (and succeeded in doing so).

Lance's “Ow, Pidge!” confirms it.

“Paladins,” Allura commands attention as she approaches. Another set of footsteps, inevitably Coran's, trail after hers. “Paladins, please! Some semblance of order is necessary for us to hold this meeting. I realize Shiro is not here, but we must try.”

The mood around the table sobers instantly. Keith bites the inside of his cheek.

“Now, firstly—”

“Who gave the order?” Keith blurts, probably surprising Lance as much as he does himself with the outburst. Normally it was Lance who asks the stupid questions. Lance must realize this, because he gives Keith's fingers a comforting squeeze.

“I'm sorry?” Allura says, caught off-guard.

“Who gave the order to rescue us?” Keith elaborates, voice low. He's far too overworked—he knows he is—and he should just be thankful he's alive, but things could have gone so terribly wrong if they weren't careful, and _Shiro made a promise_.

There's a beat of silence, in which Keith holds his breath.

Finally, Allura replies, matching his somber tone, “I did.”

The silence, he realizes, was probably Allura glaring at the others at the table to keep their mouths shut. “Lance,” Keith orders. “Tell me if she's lying. I can't see her. I can't tell.”

Another beat of silence. Lance runs his thumb over Keith's knuckles, soothing. “She's not. It was her.”

Keith relaxes. So it wasn't Shiro, but still—

Allura's words begin slow, gentle, and remain as such as she continues: “I knew about what Shiro promised you, Keith. I wouldn't have put Shiro in that position, where he had to make that choice between being a leader and being a friend. So I made it for him. Sometimes, I think you forget you all are my family too, and I'm not going to give that up so easily a second time.”

Keith freezes. “Princess—Allura—I'm sorry, I didn't—”

“It's fine, Keith,” Allura replies, nonchalant, and the tone implies she's waving him off. “Anyway, we have things we need to discuss... no, that makes it seem too formal. We need to talk.”

“That makes it sound like you're breaking up with us,” Lance quips.

“ _Lance_ ,” Pidge hisses.

“What?” Lance bites back defensively. “I'm right, aren't I?”

“He has a point, Pidge,” Hunk says.

“Paladins, _please_ , we do have things we need to clear up,” Allura cuts in.

“And by things, you mean me,” Keith deadpans, and suddenly the nerves of losing everything are back. “About replacing me.”

“No,” Allura says quickly, firm. “The red lion is still yours, and unless you decide to sever that bond, I am not going to try to force you to. You don't need sight to fly the lions, we all know that.”

“I'm not good enough,” Keith protests.

“You will practice, then. Until you don't need to see to fly. The others will help you.”

“...Shiro?”

Allura hums softly. “We shall see. I am... not entirely sure what to do with Shiro. He seems to be coping well when he's on his own, but seeing you seems to trigger some sort of reaction in him. I must admit that I myself am still a little—shocked, to say the least... But I expected Shiro to be able to handle it better. I suppose I have put too much responsibility on him.”

“Give it time, Princess,” Coran says. “It's only been a few days that the red paladin has been awake. We must allow us all some moments to adjust.”

“Of course, Coran,” Allura says. “You're right.”

In the quiet that follows, Keith studies the sound of Allura's breathing, drowning out the others while he pricks his ears forward. He wonders if only he can hear the way every other drags a little slower, as if she's struggling not to react. Keith ducks his head down, ears dropping forward, “I'm sorry, Allura.”

Her breathing picks up as she pulls herself together. Keith wonders how long she'd been doing that already—keeping that barely contained stress and worry under tight lockdown—and it hurts that he only notices now. “How are you doing, Keith?”

“Me? I...” He bites his lip, accidentally pierces the inside on one of his canines and winces when he tastes the blood. “I don't know. I'm glad to be alive, and I'm glad to have you all back—or at least, I should be. But I'm _blind_. I'm not useful anymore. I don't know why you want to keep me around. Even if I can still fly Red, I'm not going to be good at hand-to-hand combat anymore and we've never tried forming Voltron without one of us being able to see, not to mention fighting as Voltron. I'd always be behind everyone else.”

“Actually,” Pidge pipes up helpfully, “You were always ahead of us before, so now maybe we're just on level playing fields.”

The _eek_ that follows from Pidge's direction implies there were instantly numerous glares pinned on them.

“Sorry,” they say, a rare moment of actually sounding apologetic. “Lance wasn't trying to lighten the mood, so someone had to.”

“Pidge is right,” Allura says. “You have always been an amazing paladin, Keith. Truly stunning. This is only a setback. We will work around it. I think I speak for the entire team when I say I'm not leaving you behind.”

There's a chorus of affirmatives around the table. The back of Keith's neck burns with the praise, but it has none of the intimate effect that Lance has on him.

“Are you with us, Paladin?”

“Do I have a choice, Princess?”

“You've always had a choice,” Allura softens. “All of you. Each day you fight is another choice, but the lions know their pilots—they knew you would make the right decisions from the beginning.”

Keith lets out a slow breath. Red, Red, Red. He leans back in the chair, shoulders sagging. “You know my answer already, then.”

“Good,” Allura replies, firmly cheerful. “Take another day off. All of you. Tomorrow we will warp to Fih—it should be deserted, now—and you can practice flying there. We cannot form Voltron until Shiro... recovers, but I hope to ease him into accepting you by proving to him you are not harmful.”

The feeling of Allura's skin under his claws comes rushing back to Keith in a guilty mess of emotion. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I'm harmless.”

Allura sighs, but otherwise ignores his grumbling. “We'll start with the shield teambuilding routine, provided you are accustomed enough to your surroundings to be able to hold ground in it. We'll work our way through other things after seeing how that plays out. That is all.”

Keith retracts his hand from Lance's hold, and pulls his knees up to his chest in the chair. “I don't think you guys are making the right decision.”

He hears the shuffling of fabric as Allura draws closer. She rests a hand on his shoulder. “The previous paladins never became who they were alone. They had their own ties and partnerships and it made them... Stronger for it. Replacing you would do far too much damage to the team's ability to form Voltron and set us back at least a year in terms of training. But besides that... We like you, Keith.”

“Yeah, get it through your thick skull that we want to have you around,” Pidge quips.

“I agree,” says Hunk. “Well—about keeping you around. I don't really think you have a thick skull.”

“This is one of those decisions—the one where we have a choice, but the answer goes without saying,” Allura continues. “It's unanimous that we are going to help you. We're going to get through this. Together. As a team, and a family.”

Family has always been a foreign concept to Keith, but now, surrounded by his teammates with unfailing trust in him, he can't help but see the appeal. “We don't even know if we can still form Voltron with me,” he protests weakly, though he knows it's a losing battle. “I can't make any promises.”

“We're not asking you to,” Allura says. “Just to try, and to trust us.”

Keith rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head to sigh wearily against the backrest of the chair. “Okay,” he concedes.

Okay. He can do this.

 

 

 

“How are you holding up, Keith?” Hunk's voice crackles over the comms.

“I'm fucking terrified,” Keith grits back.

Lance's laugh over his shoulder grounds him a little. Pidge and Hunk are, Keith thinks, flying around him, one on each side to guide him over the meadows of Fih. At least, this is the image Keith translates from whatever Red is feeding to his mind. Theoretically, Red could be a lot more helpful in giving Keith more distinct images rather than vague feelings, but Red tends just _not_ when it comes to the “being cooperative” department.

They'd already tried the shield exercise, and failed that. Who was to say flying the lions was going to go any better?

Lance reaches around the pilot seat to plant a hand on Keith's shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. “Relax, Babe,” he purrs, and Keith must be doing a decent job of deciphering Red's fleeting thoughts because Lance sounds way too smug to be scared. “You're doing fine.”

“Shut up,” Keith growls. Red flashes him a jolt of emotion—angry, harsh, and all-consuming. An obstacle, probably, but this is different from last time when there was a tree in the way and Red fed him a stab of emotion so harsh he jerked the controls more out of pure reaction than any sort of understanding. Into the comms, Keith asks, “Mountain up ahead?”

“Plateau face,” Pidge corrects, voice crackling slightly. “But pretty close. Veer up.”

Red blares against his mind, filling his brain until all he can think about is the way the wind rushes past her ears. Red growls, deep and rumbling, and Lance yelps. “Jesus!”

“Keith!” Hunk calls. “Get ready to move, Buddy.”

Red presses on, pushing against their tether. “Fine,” he grits out to her, and ignores the confused responses from the other three paladins. “Fine.”

“Keith?” Pidge sounds worried. “What are you doing?”

“Keith.” Lance's voice is wary, and he draws out the name. “Keeeeith.”

“I've got this,” Keith grumbles, and Red pulses bits of an actual image to him. He can see, in his mind, the outline of the looming cliff, closer... closer...

“Holy fuck!” Lance cries, and his grip tightens to painful on Keith's shoulder. “Shit—Keith, pull up! Pull up!”

“I said I got this,” Keith growls, and Red rumbles around them, scaring Lance into submission. He can taste the dust on the wind, now, as Red builds the world around them for his sightless eyes. He can feel the sun on his back while it looms, deep red and huge, in the sky. Pidge and Hunk have already pulled away, but they hover nearby in silent horror as Keith prepares to collide head first into the rock.

He pulls up hard, and Red shifts with him. Last second—and Red's paws skim the rock, running along it, until they tuck under her body and they fly, just missing the surface, towards the sky. Keith whoops loudly. “Good kitty!” he cries.

Lance is in the middle of having a metaphorical heart attack while he clings to the pilot seat to keep from being thrown across the cockpit. “Jesus fuck, Keith!”

Keith laughs, light and possibly a bit hysterical, as he shoots over the edge of the cliff, and then maneuvers Red down to land on the edge. She thrums with energy around him, and they feed off each other's adrenaline (though only metaphorical in Red's case). Lance groans as he pulls himself up to perch on the armrest of Keith's seat, and Keith sends him a wild grin.

“You're insane,” Lance states, and Keith feels around until he grasps at Lance's hip, fingers sliding under his t-shirt to trace over smooth skin.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Keith replies, awed. “You did good, girl,” he adds, and pats the control panel affectionately. Red purrs around them, reverberating through Keith until he's echoing the sound back at her.

"God," Lance huffs. “Like lion, like pilot, I guess.”

“Is Blue an exhibitionist, too?” Keith prods, poking Lance in the stomach.

“Blue is pure and sacred, you ass,” Lance growls.

“Have you ever thought of jacking it in the cockpit, with Blue humming alongside you and anyone could walk in?”

“Fuck you,” Lance spits, dancing away from Keith's playful fingers when they go back to tracing shapes on his waist.

“I thought you liked that idea,” Keith shoots back. “Or maybe, the other way around.”

“Are you always like this after a thrill?”

“Little bit, yeah. It's Red, too—”

“Wait a second! The maintenance checks after battles—” Lance splutters. “I—what—you've been getting off all this time!”

Keith turns around in the pilot seat towards Lance's voice and sends him an unapologetic grin. “I did do some maintenance, but Red keeps me too high strung until...”

“Unbelievable,” Lance cries.

“Definitely,” Pidge's voice comes from the comms. “I definitely can't believe Keith just did that and I doubly can't believe I just heard that entire conversation. You two are gross.”

“I didn't do anything!” Lance protests, while Keith feels himself flush.

“Anyway, Keith, you scared the shit out of us,” Pidge continues.

“Yeah, man, that was crazy,” Hunk adds.

“Red finally caught up on how to compensate for my blindness, I think,” Keith hums, stretching almost languidly as he rides the thrill of adrenaline out, fingers still tingling. “I can see, kind of? It's more detailed than just the dive exercises—like I can still see stuff that wouldn't be an obstacle if I was moving. But it's not like... sight. I just _know_.”

“Okay, let's test it then,” Lance challenges, popping up on Keith's other side to lean over him towards the comms. Their shoulders brush, and Keith unconsciously noses his face into the crook of Lance's neck. Lance shudders slightly, shivers down his spine, and he reaches up to pet behind Keith's ears, drawing out a purr that Red assumes control of and shakes her entire body.

“Annnd, that's weird,” Lance says, pulling back. Keith pouts at the lack of contact. “Your spooky lion bonding is starting to get a little too intimate for my comfort, even.”

“You know you like it,” Keith snorts.

“That's exactly why I'm stopping it now,” Lance growls. He leans over Keith again, making sure to stay a little further away, but lets Keith thread their fingers together while Lance messes with something on the communications device. “There,” he says to Pidge and Hunk. “See that? We passed it on the way in. The canyon would make for a good obstacle course. We can test Keith's lion vision, and if it goes well, I'll go get in Blue and we can spar or something.”

“Sounds good,” Pidge hums. “Race you there.”

“Pidge, wait!” Hunk sounds distressed. “Not fair!”

“Oh, you're on,” Keith says, voice low and intent, and Lance stumbles as Keith slams Red into action, dashing after Pidge who currently has the lead given their head start.

“You don't know where we're going!” Lance protests from somewhere behind Keith, presumably clinging to the pilot seat.

“You inputted the coordinates on _my_ lion; of course I know where I'm going,” Keith fires back, driving Red forward until she takes a flying leap and scales Yellow completely, tail flicking teasingly as Hunk is left in Red's dust. Hunk's noise of protest is barely heard over the comms.

“Can't catch me!” Pidge sings, charging forward, and then dodging around an outcropping of rock with an agility that only the smaller lions possess. Keith can't help the wicked grin that starts at the corner of his mouth. Pidge may be fast, with Green being so slight, but Red is faster, especially when she and Keith are so, so in tune like this, partly forced on by his blindness. Honestly, he's a little thankful.

“Don't look behind you, Pidge,” Keith teases, pulling Red in tight to just barely scrape past the rock Pidge dodged earlier, and the lion pushes off with her paws, momentum surging forward.

Pidge makes a yelp of a noise that breaks off into a wild laugh. “Going to have to try harder than that!” With a powerful lunge, Green takes off, dipping low against the planet surface once to skim forward, then rocketing upward.

Keith chases with the same raw strength as Red lunges upwards. Together, they gain on Pidge in the air, faster by nature, and ignore Lance's screaming as he finally loses his grip on the pilot seat and stumbles around the cockpit with a dull crash. In the distance, Keith can hear the breaking of rock where Hunk slams through the outcropping rather than dodging it.

Locked onto Green's tail, Keith watches—or rather, senses, through Red—that the stars grow near. Pidge suddenly jolts to a stop, swiveling so quickly that Keith wonders how they don't have whiplash, and he _swears_ Green winks before she dives straight down, freefalling.

Growling at the trick, Keith whirls Red around, and they plummet after their opponent. Lance is screaming again, probably just out of spite, and Green finally is within sabotage distance as they near the planet surface. Red veers, and Keith's not sure if that was his command or hers, just enough to jostle Green on the fall and force Pidge to pull out of the dive early or risk losing control of their lion and splatting against the ground.

Keith whoops, and Pidge cusses him out over the comms. He continues to swoop towards the rock, and slips between the ridges of their canyon destination. He barely pulls out of the dive—Red already knows what his fingers are doing and eases the movement along—and she alights on four paws, steady and sure, with such a sudden firmness that Keith is left dizzy.

“God, I missed this,” he sighs, comfortable with the weight of his lion's presence around him. They'd been so far apart when he was in the cell—no, he's not going to think of that now. Red helps him dodge the panic attack with skilled remembrance, pressing soothing purrs against his mind until Keith is grinning without her assistance.

Lance groans and picks himself up from wherever he'd landed in the back of the cockpit. “ _I didn't_ ,” he grumbles.

“You're just jealous I've still got better moves than you,” Keith snarks back.

Lance blows a raspberry at him. “I definitely don't miss you being so smug about it.”

“It's true,” Keith presses, and when Lance comes over to stand near Keith's shoulder, he reaches wildly to grab at Lance's shirt and pulls him in for a bruising, messy kiss, all heat and teeth and clashing tongues. Lance makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat that eases into a moan, and he presses closer.

Keith hears the sound of Pidge's disgusted noise, but then the comms shut off on their end, and Hunk's disconnected during the race, probably jostled too much when he dove through the rock, leaving Keith and Lance in relative privacy. Lance pulls back to pepper kisses against the curve of Keith's ears, while Keith nibbles at Lance's neck, just barely breaking skin enough for the numbing sensation of his saliva to take effect, and Lance lets out a breathy gasp of pleasure. His pants turn to a whisper in Keith's ear: “You're right. It is true. You're amazing. Amazing, Keith.”

Keith burns, the words sending heat through his limbs that buzz with adrenaline and some other sensation courtesy of his proximity to Red. Keith pulls back, flushed and breathless, “Hah—You—You're not a-allowed to do that when I'm already so w-worked up.”

Keith feels Lance smirk against his skin. “Well, then I'll just have to wait until after we spar for you to prove to me just how much of a good boy you are.”

Red grumbles a wild purr around them, in response to the way Keith presses himself into the seat, trying to keep from grabbing at Lance. “You're so mean,” he whines, in a very Lance-like manner. Must have picked it up from him.

“I don't make promises I can't keep, though, Babe,” Lance purrs, and ducks away before Keith can reach for him.

Keith growls, low in his throat and inhuman. Red hums through him, though, soothing away some of the simmer in his belly with a _wait_. Patience, patience. Keith can do that. Probably. Maybe. He feels the burn of Lance's gaze against the back of his head while he leans to boot the communication systems back up. “Alright, Pidge, let's get this the fuck over with.”

Pidge snickers. He must look about as flushed as he feels, because they croon at him, “Awh, did Lance leave you hanging again?”

“Shut up,” Keith growls, turning his head away to hide the heat of his cheeks.

Pidge outright cackles. When they regain control of themselves, they start explaining: “Alright, Hunk's gonna stay above because he's too big to fit down here, but in case of emergencies, he can swoop in and rescue. I can lead or follow, up to you.”

“I'll go first,” Keith decides, confidence stemming from Red, as she feeds it to his mind. “Just don't follow too close in case something goes wrong and I stop suddenly.”

“Yeah, lion crashes ain't cool,” Hunk hums thoughtfully.

“I seem to remember most of them are you fault, Hunk,” Keith points out.

“Hey, hey, we don't talk about that,” Lance butts in, covering for his best friend.

“I'm sorry, okay?” Hunk cries. “Most of them were accidents.”

“ _Most_ ,” Pidge echoes. “Anyway, let's go, Keith.”

“Right,” Keith says, and pushes Red forward, her excitement thrumming through him. There's a small stream easing its way through the center of the canyon, and Red splashes through it with giddy vigor for a moment while dodging around a tree, and then Keith urges her on, and she dives forward with renewed speed.

Lance yelps and knocks into something (again), but Keith just chuckles at him. He deserves it. Payback for the teasing. At the same time, Keith burns with anticipation—a promise to be kept—and tugs Red into a sharp turn around a column of rock, paws digging hard against the wall of the canyon as she scrapes through the narrow opening.

“Shit!” Hunk's voice floats over the comms, and there's a rumbling that is definitely not Red.

“What happened, Hunk?” Pidge asks frantically.

“Sorry! Watch out!”

“Dammit, Hunk!” Pidge huffs, but Keith just flicks Red forward with the new obstacle of the crumbling cliff face to his right. Smaller rocks pick up pinpoints of attention in Keith's mind, but he filters through them as they hit harmlessly against Red's steel pelt. Instead he focuses on the falling shards, pulling Red back into a tight flip when the wall suddenly gives and the only way he can move for a moment is up.

Heart hammering, buzzing with adrenaline and the thrill of the challenge, he pushes at Red, and she leaps over the fallen earth, then dodges around another one that was aiming for her shoulder. Keith slides under another impeding boulder, but skids to a stop when he realizes it will hit Green at this rate.

“Fuck,” Pidge hisses, voice cracking.

Red lunges at Keith's command, leaping over Green, who ducks down underneath Red's shielding, and blasts fire clean through the rock, sending shattered bits of debris across both lions.

“Fucking insane!” Lance shouts from somewhere behind him.

Keith spins his lion back around, returning to dashing down the canyon. Red splashes through the stream again, and a happy hum sings through her and Keith at the satisfying spray of water around them. Red skids into a slide to fit underneath an overhang of rock, and then springs up to jump onto a ledge alongside the wall. Keith can just barely make out Yellow running alongside at the top.

Red sends Keith her intent—mischievous and definite payback for Hunk's earlier mishap, and Keith edges her onward. Gathering herself, Red leaps off the ledge, part of it cracking away from the force, and then bounces against the opposite wall, claws digging into the rock as they pitch sideways.

Lance tumbles across the cockpit with a disgruntled yelp.

Suddenly, Red is barreling towards Yellow, and Hunk cries out across the comms, but it's cut off when both lions go tumbling, Red pinning Yellow in a playful tussle, despite the fact Yellow is almost twice her size. Yellow seems to catch on faster than Hunk, because before Hunk can manage anything over the comms, Yellow is shaking Red off, and she goes sprawling, Keith thrown against the back of his seat.

“I'm not doing this ever again!” Lance screams at him. “I have, like, six concussions!”

“Suck it up!” Keith calls back, and Red picks herself up, baring her teeth in a teasing grin.

Yellow circles around, and when he gets close enough, he bats a huge paw at Red. Keith ducks her down, and she dives around, slipping underneath Yellow and between his legs, knocking the larger lion off balance until he tips, landing hard on his back. Red lunges and plants herself on Yellow's belly, nipping playfully at the paws that try to push her off.

It takes a moment for Keith to hone in on anything but _Red, Red, Red_ , and their connection, so in tune that he can feel her thoughts as if they are his own, feels the affection for her fellow lion as if he were Yellow's sibling and not her. When he does come back a bit, he can hear Hunk's laughter over the comms, hearty and carefree. “Okay! Okay! I give!”

Red relents, but only after snorting exhaust at Yellow's face.

 

 

 

As they land back in front of the castle, Keith drums his fingers on the armrest. The Castle of Lions looms in his mind's eye, provided by Red as she scans the surroundings, tail flicking just as impatiently as Keith feels.

“So, we're grabbing Blue and heading back out?” Hunk asks over the comms.

Lance suddenly shuffles past Keith, brushing his shoulder. “No,” he grits back. “Enough for today.”

“What—” Keith growls, starting forward in his seat, but the sound of Lance turning off the communication systems makes him cut himself off. “Lance—what—why?”

Suddenly Lance is curling his fingers into the fabric of Keith's shirt, breathing hard against his cheeks as he settles himself across Keith's lap, drowning him in the scent of _Lance, Lance, Lance._ Without preamble, he begins to trail kisses from the junction of Keith's neck and shoulder to the frame of his jaw, then along Keith's cheek until he reaches his ears. “You might want to tell Red to get to the hangar.”

“I thought you liked being watched,” Keith grumbles back, hands going to Lance's waist to trace over the skin on his hips. He's still not entirely sure if he's happy about interrupting the training sessions, but the warmth of Lance's body on his is quick to change his mind. He feels Lance's grin against his cheek, a silent challenge, but Red gets the point without Keith having to guide her, and she runs on autopilot to the hangar.

With the jostle of movement, Keith wraps his arms around Lance, pulling him flush against his chest. Lance clutches the back of the pilot seat with one hand while the other cards through Keith's hair, fingers scratching at his ears. A purr rumbles through both their bodies, and Red urges Keith on as he plants kisses along Lance's neck, breathing deep until he's dizzy. He searches with his tongue for the puncture marks from earlier, and latches on, sucking the skin until he tastes blood.

Lance throws his head back with a breathy moan, fingers tugging harder on Keith's hair. He squirms, rolling his hips down onto Keith's lap as Red slows to a stop in the hangar, the thrum of her energy buzzing the air around them. Keith feels her pound through his veins, edging him on, and he presses into Lance's hips, holding him still while Keith bucks upwards, grinding up on Lance.

Lance whimpers, hands falling from the pilot seat to claw at Keith's shoulders, scrambling for purchase. “K-Keith—please—”

He breaks off into a yelp when Keith bites down on the other puncture mark, careful this time not to break through, smoothing the flat of his tongue over the stinging skin, though it probably tingles from the Galran compound more than it hurts at this point. Keith surges upward, bodies bumping together as he forces Lance into stand and then backs him against the control panel—a little hard, because oops, that was a bit closer than he thought. But Lance just hops up easily, wrapping his long legs around Keith's hips to draw him in.

Keith groans at the friction when Lance pulls him against him. Lance's fingers are playing at Keith's waist, and slip under the fabric of his shirt to ghost over the skin. “Can... can I?” Lance asks, nipping at the edge of Keith's ear, which twitches towards him in response. Keith growls, releasing Lance only long enough to get his own shirt over his head before he goes for Lance's, tugging until Lance catches on.

In another heartbeat, Keith is running his hands over newly-exposed skin, exploring with fingers since he can't with his eyes. He's touched Lance before, in the shower, but this is far more heated, in the moment, probably fueled by Red as much as his own desire. Maybe he should be more weirded-out by the fact Red is urging them to keep going, except that Keith knows Red is only a catalyst, not the reaction itself. When it comes down to it, it's all him and Lance. Not to mention, with the little gasps and pants Lance is making and the scent of arousal surrounding them, there's very little else Keith can focus on, anyway. Thoughts of Red are fleeting. Thoughts of anything but Lance are fleeting.

Lance's hands are roving too—over his back, tracing his spine, feathering through the fur on the back of his neck, gripping at his waist—and they leave trails of heat in their wake. Keith presses forward, subtle since he doesn't want to smack their heads together, and Lance translates his blind movement perfectly, pressing his lips to Keith's with fervor. Keith groans as Lance pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, suckling and nibbling until Keith melts against him, leaning Lance back against the console.

Meanwhile, Keith's fingers dip under the waistband of Lance's jeans, straining to tease lower, but try as he might, he can't reach as far as he'd like.

The obvious solution is the pants must go.

And so they do, with Keith's to follow soon after.

They struggle a bit, especially when Lance has to help Keith out of his when he almost topples over, but they never break contact. There's always the brush of fingers, the heat of breath, the press of lips. Once they're both undressed, Lance reaches for Keith's hips, hands snaking around until their planted on the fabric over Keith's ass, and he tugs Keith forward. He threads his arms around Lance as he's pulled closer, and Lance curls a foot around the back of Keith's leg while he shifts his weight onto the control panel again.

Keith lowers Lance down, hovering while he trails kisses from Lance's jaw to his collarbone, and Lance arches upward, pressing as much as he can to the warmth of Keith's body. Keith noses his way across Lance's chest until he finds his nipple, and swipes an experimental tongue over it. The result nearly makes Keith drop him, when Lance lets out a high-pitched whine that sends heat straight to Keith's already hard cock.

Keith bites down, a ghost of pressure enough to make Lance grasp at his shoulders and hair like Keith is a lifeline. “Keith—Keith—” Lance presses impossibly closer, and tries to roll his hips against Keith's for friction, but Keith just lets his weight slip lower so Lance doesn't have the leverage. He growls, sounding almost like Keith. “Keith—” he hisses, and then his voice turns pleading. “Keith, _please_. Please, I want—Fuck, _Keith_.”

The chuckle vibrates through Keith before he can stop it. “Eager?”

Lance tries uselessly again to buck towards him, and whimpers. “Yes, fuck, Keith—” his voice breaks off into a whine when Keith dips his fingers along the inside of Lance's thigh, over sensitive skin. His breath comes in ragged huffs while he clings to Keith for support. “S-stop teasing!”

“You seem a little flustered, Lance,” Keith purrs, nuzzling against his chest and leaving sloppy kisses.

“L-like you aren't!” Lance fires back, and manages to slip a leg between Keith's, shoving his knee upwards because that's something he _can_ do.

Keith hisses a jumbled response that fades into a moan when he unintentionally grinds against Lance's thigh. He lets Lance's weight drop completely onto the control panel, and plants his arms against it for support as Lance pushes harder. Lance reaches one hand up to pet at Keith's ear, and then surges up to nip at his pulse-point, sucking until Keith is pretty sure Lance has marked his skin.

Distracted by sensation, Keith nearly collapses on Lance.

He can feel Lance smirking against his skin, now that he has the upper hand, and Keith determines that there's no way Lance is allowed to be that smug. Groaning, he reaches down to push Lance's leg away, and then straightens, keeping the arm on Lance's thigh and forcing his legs open. Lance squeaks and falls back against the console.

Lance reaches for Keith, but as his fingers brush over Keith's shoulder, he grabs his hand and pushes it gently away. “Stay,” he orders, and falls to his knees.

“Keith—” Lance begins, and Keith's ears flick towards him even though he doesn't move his head in response.

“Is this okay?” Keith plants a soft kiss to Lance's knee, running his hands over Lance's calf.

Lance makes a huffing noise in the back of his throat. “Hurry up.”

Keith grins, and ghosts his hands over Lance's thighs until he reaches the hem of Lance's briefs and tugs down. Lance shifts his weight to his arms to help Keith along. When Keith returns his hands to rest on Lance's legs, Lance reaches for one and draws it up, pressing butterfly kisses to the scars there. Keith can feel the heat of him on his skin.

“Are you blushing?”

Lance's movement stutters. “N-no!”

“How cute,” Keith purrs, inching his other hand closer to Lance's crotch. “You know I can't see you,” he hums.

Lance prods his chest with a toe, hard enough to make his annoyance clear but not anywhere near painful. “S-still, you—” is all he manages before Keith wraps his hand around the base of Lance's cock with just enough pressure for his words to stutter off into a pleasured gasp. “F-fuck,” he pants, hips jerking forward just barely.

Keith gives Lance a slow, easy stroke, and hears his breathing hitch. He presses his thumb over the head, and Lance lets out a low moan, legs tensing around Keith. He drops Keith's arm, and Keith can hear him scrambling for purchase on the control panel. From the way Lance pushes down, edging closer, Keith assumes he's pressing against the window.

Hand free, Keith grips Lance's hip, and eases the hand on his length down, replacing his fingers with his mouth on the head. Lance's whole body stutters with movement, and he whimpers loudly enough that it bounces around the cockpit. Red hums back with a gentle vibration that buzzes through Keith. He swirls his tongue over the head of Lance's cock, and then takes him as deep as he can without triggering his gag reflex, and hums, purring from his throat.

“Oh—fuck—Keith,” Lance pleads, and Keith hears his nails scratching uselessly against the window until they reach down to and bury into Keith's hair, tugging just enough to make his nerves react—not quite pain, but not quite pleasure, either, just a constant pull of sensation.

Keith wishes he could reach for his own erection, pressing uncomfortably against his boxers, but Red sends him a shot of _focus, patience, soon_ , so Keith resists. Instead he uses his other hand to squeeze Lance's thigh, and grins around the cock in his mouth when he hears all the air rush out of Lance's lungs in a wheeze. While he's still catching his breath, Keith purrs in his throat again, vibrating the weight of Lance's dick against his tongue and stroking what he can't fit into his mouth.

“Shitshit—Keith—Babe, _Babe_ , I'm gonna— _fuuuuuuck_ ,” Lance whimpers through a hoarse, breathless voice.

It's his voice—the way Lance is absolutely losing it—and Keith finds it suddenly extremely hard not to palm his own hard on through his boxers because _fuck_ he needs _something_ , but instead, he plays over Lance's skin again, listening to him gasp harshly against the window, fingers tugging at Keith's ears just slightly.

Lance tries to pull back, the noise from the back of his throat sounding something like a warning, but Keith bears down harder on him, hollowing his cheeks. He manages one final swirl of his tongue before Lance falls apart, entire body tensing and trembling as he comes. Keith works Lance through it, stroking, and then when he's done, he licks the tip of his cock teasingly. Lance squeaks, oversensitive, and tries to kick Keith in retaliation, but seems to give up halfway, only managing to brush his side.

Keith runs his hands over Lance's legs as he rises, stretching out his own legs. Lance catches his hand and pulls him down for a lazy kiss. When they pull apart, Keith asks, “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance murmurs, trailing a fingertip over Keith's bottom lip. “Yeah, very good,” he hums, and then pushes on Keith's shoulders to move him up. “Your turn, now.”

Before Keith can stop himself, he breathes, “ _Thank you_.” Because dammit if Red isn't doubling down on the thrum of adrenaline now, pulsing through his entire body until he's practically vibrating with excitement. He feels Lance brush his chest as he stands, and Lance presses forward until Keith stumbles backwards into the pilot seat. Lance settles on top of him, palming the bulge in Keith's boxers hard enough to make him whimper.

“Now,” Lance purrs, looping his arms around Keith's neck while Keith whines at the loss of contact in the one place that very much demands it. “You're going to let me take care of you, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Keith says a little too quickly. Red is insistent in his veins, demanding attention. “Please. Please.”

“Are you going to tell me how you like it?” Lance says, breath fanning across Keith's cheek.

Keith plants his hands on Lance's waist—smooth skin so enticing under his fingers. He makes a low grumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Slow,” he admits, but jumps to add: “But not now, _Lance._ _Lance, please._ ”

“Hmm,” Lance hums, pressing a chaste kiss to Keith's cheek. “Slow, huh? So how about this: you only move when I tell you.”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith pleads, hips bucking upwards, but Lance has his knees planted on either side of Keith and just lifts his body upward as well, so their bodies never actually connect.

“Don't you want to be a good boy?” Lance asks innocently, and trails a finger down Keith's chest, pausing to play with his nipple. Keith sucks in a gasp when Lance pinches lightly, then smooths the pad of his thumb over it after. “Just let me do this, okay?”

Keith swallows hard. “O-okay,” he manages, because Lance's other hand has reached between them again and is dipping just under the waistband of Keith's boxers with teasing intent.

Despite the fervor Red is feeding into Keith, he stays still (he should get a fucking award for that too, because Lance's hands are sin as they trace light shapes over Keith's chest). His grip tightens on Lance's waist, but Lance allows it, only making a _tsk_ noise in response.

“You're beautiful,” he breathes, sounding awed, and Keith's heart clenches. “You know that? Beautiful.” A hand strays to Keith's ears, and elicits an impatient purr. “With or without the ears,” he adds, and leans forward to kiss the tip of each ear.

“Lance,” Keith whines, focusing very hard on breathing and doing absolutely nothing else. “Please, touch me, kiss me, _something_ ,” he begs, voice cracking half way through the request purely from the desire lacing his tone.

Lance makes a noncommittal noise. “Since you asked so nicely,” he finally says, and runs his fingers down Keith's side, leaving goosebumps in their trail. “You're doing so well. You look so pretty when you're so flustered.”

Keith feels heat pour through him—and here he thought it couldn't get any worse, wanting something so badly, yet Lance proves him wrong. Unconsciously, Keith reaches for his crotch, but Lance catches his wrist and holds it to the armrest of the seat. “Ah, ah,” he huffs. “Bad. Only when I tell you to move.”

Keith whimpers, high-pitched and broken.

“Okay, okay,” Lance relents, and slips from Keith's lap to the floor. He traces his fingers over Keith's legs for a bit, lazily mapping skin, until he plants his mouth over the wet spot on Keith's boxers and Keith nearly yelps, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He's tastes blood almost instantly, and can't bring himself to care.

He thought the quintessence was wildfire—but Lance is _lava_ , molten and wet on Keith, even through his boxers. It's a different heat, too. Lance is a pinpoint of a blaze, and it's all Keith can focus on, but here's the thing: he wants to focus on it. Lance presses the flat of his tongue against the head of Keith's dick, and Keith whimpers. Before he can stop himself, Keith reaches for Lance, threading his fingers through his hair.

Lance pulls back instantly, and Keith makes a distressed noise, wrenching his hand back. “Nonono,” he says before Lance can even scold him. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please— _Lance, please_.”

“You're so desperate,” Lance observes, voice with hidden mischief, but he begins to work Keith's boxers down from his hips with achingly slow movements. He leans forward to pepper kisses as the skin of Keith's thighs is revealed, but makes it a point to ignore the obvious erection curving towards Keith's stomach. He trails his fingers, featherlight, up Keith's legs. “But I'll forgive you if you promise to be good from now on.”

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Keith whimpers. “Please, anything—please.”

“Hands on the armrests,” Lance orders, lapping kitten-kisses against the inside of Keith's leg. Keith instantly does as he's told, gripping so tightly to keep from moving that his knuckles burn. Red purrs a reassuring thrum through the seat, and Keith forces himself to wait. “You're doing so well,” Lance praises, and Keith groans.

Chuckling, Lance slides his hands over Keith's hips and finally grips his cock, running a tantalizingly slow hand over the length. He runs a finger over the tip with gentle movement, and then removes that hand while the other continues to stroke. Keith hears the _pop_ of Lance pulling his finger from his mouth, and the idea that Lance had just licked the precum from Keith's dick makes him twitch against Lance's other hand, a low moan escaping his throat.

“You taste so nice, too,” Lance hums.

“ _Please_.”

“As you wish,” Lance says, and suddenly swipes his tongue along the underside of Keith's dick, planting a sloppy kiss on the head.

Keith suddenly realizes what Lance felt earlier when the breath left him, because he suddenly feels like he can't get enough air. He needs more, more, more, and his reckless pants continue as Lance takes him into his mouth. He swirls his tongue over the head, lapping at the skin while he slowly pumps with his hand. The other he reaches up and presses against Keith's lips until Keith opens his mouth and sucks, saliva slipping past his lips and down his chin.

Lance pulls away from Keith's cock, but doesn't stop his slow movements with his fingers. It seems he's caught off guard because he mutters a low, “Oh, fuck.”

Keith's ears prick towards his voice, still rough. Lance continues, sounding mildly distressed, “Fuck, that's hot. You're hot.”

Keith purrs, the praise warming through him. Lance gently pulls the fingers from his mouth. “Stand up,” he hums, shuffling a bit away from the seat to give Keith room as he complies. He reaches a spit-slicked finger towards Keith's hole, pressing gently at the ring. “Is this okay?”

Keith whines at the lack of anything happening, but finds his voice. “Y-yes.”

“Are you sure? Clean?”

“Yes. _Please_.”

“Just for the record, I don't have a gag reflex.”

Before Keith can process the implications of that admission, Lance presses a finger slowly into him while simultaneously taking Keith's dick into his mouth until his nose brushes against his skin.

Keith short-circuits, a broken cry tearing from his throat that breaks into silence as he loses his breath, gasping. Lance hums, vibrations like heaven, while he makes gentle work into Keith's hole, easing Keith into the feeling. Keith loses the strength in his legs, and has to clutch at Lance's shoulders for support, chest heaving while he drowns in the feeling of _Lance_.

Lance swallows around Keith, and begins moving, head bobbing, and Keith lets out a breathless moan. As all-consuming the heat of Lance's mouth is, it almost fades away when Lance's probing finger finds Keith's prostate and brushes past it, just enough to make Keith tense all over while a guttural groan rips through him, then stutters into an inconsistent purr.

“F-fuck—Lance, Lance, more, _please_.”

Despite being busy, Lance's mouth curves into a smirk—Keith can feel it, and it's one of the hottest and simultaneously most terrifying things he's encountered in his life. Lance uses his other hand to squeeze Keith's ass, and then he resumes the gentle push on Keith's prostate.

His breath comes out in stutters, only able to occasionally suck in air in the cracks between purrs, but he can't stop the purr, either, which might be partly Red's fault. It rumbles through him, sings in his blood, and when Lance hums back again, accented by a well-timed brush on his prostate, he loses it. Keith comes harder than he has in a long time, entire body trembling with the effort, and with a high-pitched cry that Keith isn't entire sure came from him—but it must have. As if his impeding orgasm was all that was keeping him up, and now that he's riding the waves of pleasure, he feels the energy abandon him instantly, replaced by tired bliss. He slumps over Lance, curling around his head as Lance pulls away with a satisfied smack of his lips.

As Lance stands, Keith falls back onto the pilot seat, completely spent. Lance settles himself sideways between Keith's legs, draping his own over the armrest while his hands loop over Keith's neck again. He snuggles against Keith, probably reveling in the warmth, and nuzzles into his shoulder while a hand goes up to pet his ears. It takes Keith another few moments to recover.

Finally, manages to speak. “Holy shit,” he breathes, mostly because he's not sure if his voice is capable of making any louder sound.

“Indeed,” Lance returns, voice hoarse, as he presses a kiss to Keith's neck.

Keith wraps his arms around Lance, pulling him in and burying his face against the crook of Lance's neck. He absorbs the moment, but then: “I smell blood. Shit, did I hurt you?”

“Hmm?” Lance responds, and shifts slightly, presumably to inspect himself. “Oh, the bite mark opened when you grabbed my shoulder. S'fine. Doesn't hurt. It's still tingly.”

“I'm sorry,” Keith says, and runs a hand up Lance's arm until he thumbs over the wound, now closed again. “I'm sorry—I must not have noticed.”

“You were a bit busy,” Lance quips, settling back into the curve of Keith's body and dislodging his hand from his shoulder.

“I've never been that loud—holy shit,” Keith breathes again, a little awed. “You're fucking amazing. Annnnd, I can't believe I just admitted that out loud because now you're never going to let it go, are you?”

“Nope,” Lance says, popping the 'p.' “But don't worry, I don't think you were that loud.”

“I screamed when I came,” Keith deadpans. “Shit—I hope the others didn't hear.”

Lance shuffles in his arms. “I think you're imagining things, Babe. I didn't hear you. Even then, let the others know. I want them to know you're _mine_.”

A purr rumbles through Keith, involuntary, as he ponders Lance's words. “I don't—I could have sworn...” He rubs a hand over the side of his face, and yawns. “Maybe I'm just out of it.”

“Maybe it's a Galra thing,” Lance says thoughtfully. “You know? Bats? They have that scream-thingy.”

Keith chuckles, feeling his eyelids droop. “Echolocation, you mean?” He yawns again, burying his nose into Lance's neck until the scent nearly overwhelms him. “Maybe.” He laps at Lance's skin, tasting sweat and skin, and lazily leaves kitten-kisses on his boyfriend's collarbone. Between licks, he murmurs, “You always this smart after sex?”

Lance makes a noncommittal noise.

“Maybe we should do this sort of thing before missions instead of after.”

“Or both.”

“Both?”

“Before and after. Both. Both is good.” Lance stretches, pressing his ass into Keith's thigh while he splays over the armrests. “Can we go nap? Naps sound good.”

“Are you going to hog the bed?” Keith fires back. His limbs feel like jelly, still, but sleeping in Red isn't the best idea. As much as he loves her, she definitely isn't as comfortable as a bed. Red shows her disapproval at the thought by thrashing her tail in the hangar and knocking it into something. “Oh, hush,” Keith soothes at her.

“No promises,” Lance answers his earlier question. “Or we could cuddle on the couch. Come on, let's go be disgustingly cute in front of Pidge and see how long it takes for them to get pissed.”

“We already know the answer is like thirty seconds max,” Keith retorts, laughing. Lance rolls off his lap, and a couple seconds later something smacks into Keith's chest—his shirt, probably. “Ugh, no. No moving.”

“Come on,” Lance purrs, tugging at Keith's hand until he grudgingly rises. “Couch cuddles, let's go.”

Keith chuckles, and Red rumbles around them, satisfied and encouraging. “Okay, fine, you win.”

“I always do,” Lance quips as Keith tugs on his shirt, first feeling for the tag to see if it's inside-out.

“We both know that's not true,” Keith replies immediately, and Lance chucks his pants at him.

“Uh-huh,” Lance huffs back. “I win at blowjobs, from the way you're acting.”

“Okay, that might be true,” Keith admits. “Where—”

Lance cuts him off: “Good luck finding your boxers.”

Keith's brain takes a moment to catch up. “Wait... What. Lance. Lance!” he cries, but Lance's teasing laugh is already distant, outside in the hangar. “Dammit! Lance! You bastard!”

There's no answer beyond the sound of a raspberry.

“Fuck you!” Keith calls.

“Next time!” Lance shouts back.

Keith grumbles and pulls his pants on with far more force than necessary.

 

 

 

Turns out, couch cuddles aren't as terrible as Keith was making them out to be. Sure, it's not a bed, but when he's curled around Lance's form, sated and happy, there's really nothing he can complain about. They had started out side-by-side, leaning on each other and across the couch from Pidge, who's typing paused for only a moment when they entered the room. Lance had seemed to be intent on making his threat of being disgustingly cute in front of Pidge a reality, as he sprawled out across Keith's lap, the crack of his joints hinting that he was stretching out, before nuzzling into Keith's leg.

The purr rumbled through Keith at the proximity before he really could process it. Pidge had made an annoyed noise, and then there was the sound of their laptop closing, and then footsteps trailing away. Lance made a disappointed noise in response, and Keith murmured, “I told you so.”

But now, Keith's on his back, stretched out on the couch, while Lance's weight pins him down, his boyfriend's head tucked against his shoulder. Keith presses a kiss to Lance's forehead, and he lets out a contented sigh, squeezing his arms around Keith in response. Keith finds it exceedingly endearing.

Despite everything, he feels satisfied. And not just because of the sex, though that's definitely a plus. He feels content and warm and _safe_ , which is something he hasn't had since before the failed mission, and maybe not even then. Even when he escaped the first time, he was constantly looking over his shoulder, constantly fighting the panic threatening to surface, and constantly reminding himself _If I go back, I won't be as lucky as the first time_. It was... tiresome, to say the least, and driving him to insanity at the worst.

But now, he's managed to get out again. He's doing something to fight back. He has a team; he has _Lance_ , wrapped in the circle of his arms while he breathes peacefully atop Keith's chest, and Keith couldn't wish for anything better. Things are still working themselves out, but he doesn't feel the weight of impossibility bearing down on his shoulders anymore. He can breathe again.

“Thank you,” Keith breathes into Lance's hair, pressing another gentle kiss to the sleeping figure.

But apparently Lance isn't asleep—just relaxed enough that he appears so. “Mmph,” he hums back. “You're welcome. What for?”

“For being here,” Keith admits, flushing at the intimacy of the moment. “You're so patient with me, and I just—” He chokes on the words, overwhelmed. His senses are all filled with Lance, ears with the sound of his breathing and voice, nose with his scent, skin with his touch.

“Hey, it's okay,” Lance says, and searches across Keith's body until he finds his hand and links their fingers together.

“I just wish I could see you,” Keith breathes. He fights back tears, though he's not sure what they stem from: the emotion of being so absolutely in love with this boy, or the frustration of feeling he conveys that love inadequately. “It's frustrating.”

“I know,” Lance hums, pressing a kiss to Keith's shoulder. He barely moves, as if the action of reaching towards Keith's lips is too much effort, so he works with whatever is within range.

Keith takes a deep breath, Lance rising with the movement of his chest. Lance runs his thumb over Keith's knuckles. “I just—I miss so much. There's so much that goes over my head because I can't see. I can't read expressions and I can't tell who's who, and I can't do what I used to. But I also _miss_ being able to see. I miss watching everyone smile. I miss seeing you smile. I miss the color of your eyes.”

Lance makes a strangled noise. “That—That's really sweet, Keith,” he finally manages, voice on the edge of cracking. He sniffles, once, and then shifts so he brushes his nose over Keith's, a warning as to his proximity, but also a gesture of intimacy. “I'd close my eyes forever if I could. If you can't see them, then no one else deserves to.”

Keith cringes slightly, though it's not entirely intentional. Something about the way Lance says that, the way it hits far too close to his own problem now, doesn't sit well with him. “No,” he says. “No, don't do that. It's bad enough as is.” He doesn't specify what exactly is bad: he doesn't think he needs to. “I'm sorry,” Keith finally hums. “I shouldn't be complaining so much.”

“If anyone is going to complain around here, it should be you,” Lance retorts, all traces of sentimentality gone from his voice. “We need a vacation.”

Keith snorts, and they fall into silence, Lance once again settling on Keith's chest. Keith shoves him over a bit, because his arm is falling asleep and Lance is heavy after twenty minutes of lazing around, but once they settle, taking turns drawing abstract shapes on each other with fingers, they end up dozing.

Keith is half asleep when his ears automatically flick towards the doorway, and he's harshly drawn from vague semiconsciousness. He jolts, just slightly, disrupting Lance's napping, too.

“Mmph,” Lance says.

“Did you hear that?” Keith hisses, turning his head towards the hallway he'd thought he'd heard noise from, and then cussing when he realizes he can't see anything. He hates that—when the actions from when he could see automatically follow through, even though they're useless habits.

“Hear what?” Lance mumbles sleepily, and then yawns.

From the hallway, perhaps in the kitchen, Keith hears someone say: “ _Holy shit!_ ”

“What's going on?” Keith asks.

Lance sits up, legs draped over Keith's lap. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Before Keith can reply, he hears footsteps, rapid and anxious, and from more than one person. Lance yelps and suddenly the weight of him is gone, and Keith is scrambling for words, until he has no breath with which to speak.

There's weight on his chest, nothing like the comfort of Lance, and an arm against his throat, pressed harshly against his windpipe with crushing strength.

Distantly, Keith hears someone scream: “Shiro! No!”

Keith scratches along Shiro's arm, searching for purchase, trying to breath. He hears a _thud_ , and then there's just enough space for Keith to dig his fingers between his neck and Shiro's arm and he yanks hard. He sucks in air, mind transporting back to the hundreds of other times he suffered the same breathlessness. Haggar's dark magic swirls around him. It's his imagination—he knows it—but with Shiro's body squeezing his lungs, Keith can't help the panic that rises in his throat.

The growl tears through him, all fear, and as soon as Shiro lets up just the slightest amount—he vaguely recognizes the sounds of a struggle that imply Lance is trying to hold Shiro back—he surges upwards, shoving hard, and scrambles over the back of the couch.

Still sucking in air—not enough not enough not enough—he crawls on all fours and stays in a crouch, hissing violently despite the fact he still feels like he's suffocating.

“Ow! Fuck!” Lance hisses, and then Shiro's barreling into Keith again, and they go tumbling across the floor. Shiro manages to knee him in the side, the pain bruising through his body, and Keith latches his claws into Shiro's shoulder, tearing through clothing and skin. Part of him—the fight or flight response—is sickeningly proud, but when the scent of blood hits Keith like a truck, he reels back, putting a couple of feet in between them.

“Shiro—S-Shiro, it's m-me,” he pants, fighting the hiss rising in his throat out of instinct. He has to get himself under control, has to stop the panic, has to stop the fear.

Shiro growls like a full-blooded Galra and lunges again.

Keith feels his breath catch in his throat—he can only hear Shiro, hear the shuffle of his movement, and so all of Keith's responses are guesswork. He attempts to dodge with a roll to the side, but Shiro still slams into him. He's pinned, suddenly, arms stretched above his head.

“Shiro!” It sounds like Pidge. Shiro's attention abandons Keith for a moment, and there's a yelp.

Fuck. Pidge. No. Not Pidge. Keith has to stop this. Where the hell is Allura? Shitshitshit.

“Lance!” Keith yells, as Shiro resumes struggling against Keith's arms. “Lance, I—” Shiro's fist connects with his jaw, and pain blooms across the impact. Keith's ears ring. “Th—the quintessence—” he pants, words gritted through pain. He tries to shove Shiro off, but he's trying not to claw him anymore—he doesn't want to antagonize him further—and Shiro's too heavy to displace.

In fact, it works to Keith's disadvantage, because he can't see Shiro's hand shooting forward to latch onto his wrist where it hits against his chest.

“Keith— _Keith_ ,” Lance cries, and Keith hears his footsteps nearing.

Suddenly, Shiro's rearing back, lifting off of Keith just enough for him to crawl away, skittering across the floor until he backs himself into the wall. He has no idea where he is now, in relation to anything else—no idea where to run, where to hide, how to fight back, how to help. The whimper rises out of his throat before he can stop it, and then his ears flatten back and the noise turns to a hiss when he hears Lance's pained grunt where his body _thuds_ against something.

“Lance,” Keith hisses, though it comes out more as a whisper. He feels his back against the wall, feels his heart thud in his chest, rapid and scared. He hears Shiro's breathing, harsh and heavy, and Lance's faint groan where Keith presumes he's collapsed in a pile somewhere.

“I—have—it,” Lance wheezes, sucking in air between words. Shiro must have knocked the wind out of him.

“Good—” and that's all Keith manages before the panic attack he's been teetering on the edge of finally hits with full force. Can't breathe can't see can't move. Nonono. Haggar's claws, the whips, the knives, the quintessence—he can't, he can't take it again, not when it's left him like this. He's not strong, not enough. Air—air, he needs air.

There's a cold press of something against Keith's throat as he's lifted, trembling, from his crouched position. He doesn't even have the ability to hiss at Shiro anymore, as his Galra hand begins to heat against Keith's skin. He's drowning, drowning in nothing but his own fear as it thrums through his blood and turns him into a shadow of who Lance thinks he is.

He's weak.

“Sh... Shiro—” he gasps. “Sh-Shiro, please...”

The hand at his throat tightens, pushes him further up against the wall until Keith can barely hold himself up.

Haggar's magic, dark and tangling. It wraps around him, reaches down his throat until he chokes on it, sobbing.

He burns, body aching for air. Shiro's other hand joins the first to tighten around Keith's neck.

Ghost touches of knives. He flinches at nothing, tries to hiss but can't. His claws dig into the wall, scratching against the paneling. The crack of whips sound in his ears, her _voice_ grates on his mind until he's _nothing, nothing, nothing_.

“Shiro!”

Keith recognizes the voice, but can't put a face or name to it. His mind is foggy, swimming in fire and vague blackness.

“Shiro, listen to me! If Keith was Galra, he'd be fighting back. Work this though. It doesn't make sense and you know it. Just—just let him go.”

The grip on Keith falters, just barely, and Shiro makes a choked noise.

There's suddenly sounds of a struggle, and Keith crumples to the ground as soon as Shiro's hands are ripped from his neck. He coughs, sucking in oxygen so fast that it hurts.

“Shiro, ow, Man—damn—It's okay, it's okay. Deep breathe. Calm down.” Keith vaguely recognizes Hunk's words, consciousness swimming.

Suddenly there's warmth pressed against him, and he flinches away, thrashing, until his wrists are caught, gently, and Lance's scent washes over him, replacing some of the fear and blood. Keith clutches at him, probably tearing through skin with his claws on accident, because he breathes in the coppery taste of blood again. He makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat, but Lance just wraps himself around Keith, curling his body so Keith is hidden between Lance and the wall.

Protective.

Lance's fingers dig into Keith's shoulder and hip, grounding him for a moment before he dives back to the torture room, trapped on the table while Haggar slowly forces quintessence down his throat, a constant stream that consumes him. He flails again, and Lance's hand petting at his ears brings him back, just slightly, but his heart still hammers against his chest, painfully quick.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, but when he resurfaces to the present, to _now_ , he realizes Lance is holding him so tight that his body is twitching.

“Lance,” he breathes, curling his hand into Lance's shirt. “Lance, I—I think—”

Lance suddenly releases him, and Keith feels the brush of air as he whirls.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Lance growls, deadly low. “What the fuck, _Shiro_.”

“Lance—”

For the first time in a while, Keith hears Shiro.

He sounds absolutely broken: withered away to nothing and completely shattered.

“Lance—I'm—Keith—I'm... I'm sorry. I don't—”

“We're a _team_ ,” Lance hisses, accusatory.

Keith's ears flatten against his head at his tone. “Lance... Lance, please.” There are similar echoes of pleading from Hunk and Pidge, who hover nearby as if unsure how to react.

“I know—” Shiro gasps out, and Keith realizes he's crying. “I just—the prison—the Galra—it's too much. I can't—” He takes in a deep breath.

“You're our _leader_ ,” Lance shouts suddenly, and then lets out a cry. “We're family—he's your family—you don't—”

“Stop it,” Keith interrupts, his voice sounding like an order, and he honestly has no clue how he managed that. It's still hoarse, vocal chords probably damaged from Shiro's attack. “Lance, it's okay.”

Keith shuffles forward, away from the wall just slightly. “Shiro, come here.”

“I—what?” Shiro chokes out. “I—I sh-should go.”

“I can't see you,” Keith supplies, in case no one had bothered to tell him about the blindness when the Galra-ness seemed to be the bigger issue at hand. “Come here.”

“Keith—” Lance growls, but Keith growls right back, inhuman and far more savage than he intended. But it shuts Lance up, all the same.

He hears footsteps—foreign compared to the rest of the team, and uncertain, hesitant. Shiro's. Shiro's footsteps. They stop nearby, and Keith can hear his breathing, ragged and shuddering in his chest. He reaches out, fingers brushing over Shiro's leg, and then ghosts his hand upward until he can find Shiro's fingertips, and tugs.

Shiro lands with a surprised grunt, and then Keith flings himself on him. Shiro tenses instantly, but Keith is clutching onto his shoulders regardless, shaking while he simply _holds_ , because he missed Shiro—missed him so much it ached, and the weight on his heart lifts. He chokes on a sob. “You—You don't—” he gasps. “Y-you can't j-just _leave_ , like that.”

A shudder wracks Shiro's body, and then he's reaching around Keith and pulling him close, resting his cheek against the base of Keith's ears. “I-I'm sorry,” he breathes, squeezing tighter. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“You're the only one who _understands_ ,” Keith whispers to Shiro's shoulder. “The torture and the pain—you're the only one who gets it. I need you. We all do...”

“I'm sorry—” Shiro chokes, and then he's crying again, tears leaking into Keith's hair. “I didn't realize—You—I never—”

“...But we're here for you too. You have to trust us. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

There's a moment of consideration—of silence where the two just remember and adjust and _breathe_.

“Okay,” Shiro says.

And then Hunk is shuffling over, wrapping his arms around the two of them and drawing them in until they're both sandwiched between strong arms and a warm heart. Pidge flings themselves into the mess within the next moment, wedging themselves between Keith, Hunk, and the wall.

Lance is the last to join. He pads over with wary, tired steps, and then plops down, wrapping himself around Shiro and Keith with the same protectiveness of his and Keith's nights sleeping in the circle of each other's arms. He turns his head towards Keith, and breathes deep, shuddering, and some of the stress eases from his movements.

“We're a _team_ ,” Lance whispers, and Keith can't think of a time that ever felt truer.

 

 

 

Allura finds them, all tear-stained messes, on the floor maybe an hour later, a quiet “Oh,” falling from her lips. No one has let go, and everyone's limbs ache from the awkward position. It's as if none of them really realized what was missing, how broken they were, until they finally put everything back together and could see the cracks where the damage was done.

Shiro's the first to disrupt the quiet, slowly and gently peeling Keith away from his chest. Keith hiccups, and clings at Shiro's arms, earning himself a broken chuckle in response. He's passed over to Lance, redirected until he wraps himself around Lance like a leech and Lance automatically curls around him in response, completely disentangling from the others in order to favor Keith.

“Is everyone... okay?” Allura ventures from nearby.

“Mostly,” Shiro says, an edge of lightheartedness in his tone. Then, quieter, as if telling a secret: “I think I'm better than I've been in a long while.”

“It's good to have you back,” Pidge says, and the _oof_ noise that Shiro lets out leads Keith to believe Pidge performed one of their flying hug-tackles on him.

“It's good to be back,” Shiro whispers, and Keith has a feeling the words were only meant for Pidge, but he hears them anyway. They tangle around his heart and pull, before unwinding. Distantly, Keith feels Red's hum, supportive and strong and happy, because somehow she knows, and he wonders if Shiro can feel Black's relief that everything is going to be _okay_.

Allura sucks in a breath. “Shiro, your arm!”

Shiro makes a disgruntled noise, and then a hand is pressed to Keith's shoulder. Lance tenses around him, but Keith lifts himself out of his hold just enough to swivel his ears towards Shiro in response. “Your neck,” he says.

Lance's fingers splay against Keith's chin—Lance's, he's sure, from the scent and the shape, because he knows them better than his own sometimes—and guide his head upward until he bares his throat.

“Shit,” Pidge comments, ever the observant one of the team.

“Language,” Shiro scolds automatically, and then: “But 'shit' is right. We should get you in a healing pod.”

“What?” Keith says, and his voice cracks, almost painfully, against his throat. He's floating in an only semi-lucid existence, weary from the fight and panic attack and tears, and when Lance scratches at the base of his ears, Keith's running on full instinct. He purrs and nuzzles back towards Lance, nipping playfully but lazily at his neck.

“Shiro's right, Keith, that looks pretty bad,” Hunk says, worry edging his tone.

“Doesn't feel bad,” Keith mumbles sleepily. “Don't want healing pod.”

“I think—” Lance starts, and the fingers working in Keith's hair pause, so he whines until they resume. “I think this really took a toll on him. Maybe it's best he just go sleep.”

“If that's what you think is best,” Shiro responds thoughtfully. “You know him better than the rest of us.”

Pidge snorts. “Yeah. Didn't need to hear it over the comms, but in case I hadn't, I could always just check out the hickeys.”

“I'm happy for you,” Shiro comments, a little too cheerfully.

Keith can feel Lance's skin heat where they stay in contact. “You guys are the worst,” he says indignantly. He nudges at Keith, ignoring the others' laughs. “Come on, Keith. Let's go to bed. You need rest after today.”

Keith makes an annoyed noise, but allows Lance to tug him upwards. He sways a bit, leaning heavily on Lance once he finds where he is.

“Do you want me to carry him?” Shiro offers.

“No,” Lance responds, a little quickly. “I think we've got it.”

“Oh... kay.”

“Sorry—” Lance grunts, as he helps Keith walk. “I just—this has been—I...”

“It's okay, Lance,” Shiro replies softly. “I'm sorry too. It shouldn't have had to come to this.”

Lance hums a response, and the pair moves slowly towards the living quarters. They're probably halfway there before Keith remembers he needs to use words to communicate, and mumbles, “Your room—wanna smell you.” He hears Lance suck in a breath, and then it exhales in a soft chuckle, and the direction Lance is leading him shifts.

Keith is half asleep on Lance's shoulder when they reach his door. Lance guides him across the room, and Keith lets out a grunt before he flops unceremoniously onto the bed, face down. He wriggles against the covers until he makes an indent for his body, and stretches until his nose is buried under a pillow. Inhaling deeply, Keith happily drowns, scenting nothing but Lance, until a stronger version of the that which is on the bedding hits him.

Lance brushes his fingers over Keith's shoulder blades, a ghost touch, as the bed dips under his weight. Keith hears him, awed, say: “You're so beautiful.”

Keith snorts into the pillow, even as the compliment makes him feel even more floaty that he already does. It pulls him far enough away from the haze of exhaustion settling in his bones to give Lance a more honest reply. He draws his arms in to cross them under the pillow he rests on, and he turns towards Lance's voice, towards the other weight on the mattress, gravity slightly pulling Keith closer, and purrs softly. “I always thought you were gorgeous. I knew I was absolutely fucked from the first time I saw you.”

“Oh,” Lance says, and falls silent.

“Too bad I won't get to again,” Keith mutters.

“Maybe for the best,” Lance clips. “I'm a mess.”

There's a broken laugh.

“Lance, you're amazing,” Keith says, genuine. Lance has been his lifeline—Lance is the only reason he's sane right now.

“Keith, I—” Lance starts, and then cuts himself off.

When he doesn't finish, Keith presses, “Lance?”

“Nothing,” he replies curtly, but Keith hears the shudder in his breath that gives him away. “I—just... It's nothing. You've been through enough today.”

“I don't understand,” Keith says, turning and feeling his way across the bed until he makes contact with Lance's hip. He draws the blue paladin in closer. “Lance, what's wrong?”

Lance molds against him, tangling their legs and automatically arching until they press in one single long seam, chest to chest and hip to hip. Keith feels the breath catch in Lance's lungs in a small hiccup, barely audible. “I-it's nothing. I'll be fine.”

“You don't have to be okay all the time,” Keith whispers.

“I have to be strong—I have to help you,” Lance gasps out, one arm looping over Keith and pulling them almost painfully close together. “You need me. I'll be okay.”

Keith traces a soothing circle onto Lance's hip. “I do need you,” he admits. “But I want you to be happy, Lance.”

Lance's deep breath pushes against Keith, and he feels every tremor that shakes through the other's body. “I'm so scared,” he gasps out. “Red, and then Shiro—I _love_ you, Keith. I can't lose you. It's terrifying.”

“Breathe,” Keith reminds him softly, noticing the way Lance's chest starts to heave for air. “I'm here,” he soothes. “I'm here. It's okay to be scared, Lance. I've been scared my entire life. You just have to stop it from controlling you.”

“How—” Lance grits out.

“Just think about now,” Keith hums. “Now is warm and safe and we're okay, we're _okay_. We can be happy. And... I love you, Lance. I'd like to think that counts for something.”

Keith listens as Lance's breathing begins to steady. He lets the gentlest of purrs rumble between them, a simple thrum of contentedness that Keith hopes can help to ease Lance's problems away. “Yeah,” he finally sighs. “Yeah, that counts for something. I'm sorry—”

“Don't be,” Keith interrupts quickly. Their breaths had already been fanning out across each other's faces, but Keith edges across the last distance between them, until his nose brushes over Lance's and he plants a kiss there. “Lance, it's okay.”

Lance takes a deep breath, and he nods. At least, that's what Keith assumes he's doing, because he doesn't respond, but Keith feels the movement of his head. They stay like that, breathing in each other's warmth, until Keith hears Lance hiccup out a sob. He flattens his ears back before he can help it.

“Lance, Lance,” he breathes, ghosting his fingers up his body. “Are you crying?”

“N-no,” Lance huffs, but Keith catches onto the crack in his voice.

“Oh, _Lance_.” Keith tucks Lance's head into his shoulder, and Lance finally breaks, trembling. He shudders with another sob, shoulders shaking against the tears, and clings to Keith, fingers digging into clothing and limbs, while Keith holds him through it. For a moment, he's teleported back to the first day they were captured, when Lance came apart under the weight of it all, and Keith wonders if Lance ever really let that weight fall.

Keith remains in a less-floaty headspace than earlier, but he's still exhausted. As Lance's cries subside into small hiccups, and then into soft sighs, Keith's fighting to keep his eyes open. He's not sure why he keeps them open in the first place, really, considering their uselessness—perhaps it's out of habit.

“Better?” Keith mumbles against Lance's hair, as Lance's hand reaches up between their bodies to rub at his face.

“Y-yeah,” Lance whispers. “You're way too good for me. Out of my league.”

“I'm having deja-vu,” Keith mutters, a faint tingle going through his body with the words, though he doesn't notice it much. He moves to press a kiss to Lance's forehead, but is interrupted by a wide yawn. After a moment of silence, in which Keith's brain wanders to places he can't ever describe because he's too drained to process, he mutters without thinking: “We should have sex. Actual sex.”

And then Keith's brow furrows because he's not entirely sure if he said that out loud or not, and it probably wasn't the right time if he did. From the way Lance stiffens in his arms, fuck, yup, he did say that out loud. Okay so Spacey post-panic and post-emotional-rollercoaster Keith has no filter. Noted.

“Wh-what?” Lance stutters, slowly easing back into Keith's hold.

Well he didn't ruin this completely, because Lance is still willing to cuddle.

“Not now,” Keith clarifies. “Or—well—ever, if you don't wanna. Sorry.” He pauses to yawn again, and this time he hears Lance echo him. “Kind of slipped.”

“...I'd like that, sometime,” Lance says, nuzzling into Keith's shoulder. “Preferably sooner rather than later.”

Keith half-chuckles and half-purrs, humming through both their bodies. “Okay,” Keith agrees sleepily. “But after a nap. I'm crashing.”

He's almost asleep, when Lance mutters: “You're the _worst_.”

“What?” Keith snorts, and tries to sound indignant, but it only comes out weary. “Why?”

“Because you can't just say things like that and expect me to be able to _sleep_ afterward.”

Keith snorts, and finally gives into the pull on unconsciousness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: panic attacks, praise kink, violence, mentions of torture


	7. Night Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this chapter have plot? Yes. Is it hidden in the porn? Also yes.

“ _Love is the root of so much suffering and misery, so much loss. It's the worst thing in the world, to risk yourself by loving someone. At the same time, it's the best thing in the world—and worth the risk.”_

\- _Flamecaster_ by Cinda Williams Chima

 

It's Shiro who splutters in surprise when, the next morning, Allura says: “I think the five of you should go out and train with the lions against the castle defenses while we're still on Fih. We'll be leaving later today.”

Finally, their leader seems to manage words. “What—Keith?”

Keith pops a slice of some sort of space fruit into his mouth, diced into easy pieces courtesy of Hunk, and Keith is forever grateful of the others' considerations. “What about me?” he hums at Shiro, all swagger.

“You can—fly?” Shiro stammers out, from somewhere across the table.

Lance, who is sitting next to Keith, rests a proud, appreciative hand on his knee, squeezing slightly, and Keith lets the cocky grin widen. “You wanna race and find out?”

“No!” Pidge pipes in from somewhere behind Keith, where it sounds like they're trying to steal bits of whatever Hunk is carrying into the room. “I would strongly advise against it, Shiro.”

Shiro makes a choked noise as it finally clicks. “The red lion—You-you learned to see through its eyes?”

“Okay, rude,” Keith snarks and pauses for a heartbeat to reevaluate his life choices because he _definitely_ picked that up from Lance. “Red's a girl.”

Keith hears Shiro's breath stutter in his lungs, and hears the paired chuckles of Pidge and Hunk from behind him. “I—what? Sorry?”

Keith tries, really does, to stifle his laughter behind his hand, but utterly fails. He slumps sideways against Lance, hiding his face in his boyfriend's shoulder while his shoulders shake. While he's still recovering, Lance comments, “I'm so proud of you. You finally learned how to make a _joke_.”

“I—I make jokes,” Keith argues around stutters of air. “All—the time.”

He feels Lance shake with a silent laugh.

“I... really missed a lot, didn't I?” Shiro mumbles, sounding so dejected that Keith almost feels sorry for him. Almost. He's decided, instead, that he's not going to feel pity, and he's not going to crave it either, because they need to move past this—as a team, together—and they all need to be on the same page. To be okay. “Alright,” Shiro adds suddenly. His voice is stern. “I want a full report on everything that's happened the past week and a half by midnight.”

“Oh, _fuck no_ ,” Lance huffs instantly, and Pidge makes a loud squawk of indignation.

It's Shiro's turn to laugh, warm and full. “I've got jokes, too.”

Allura snorts, disbelieving. “You all are ridiculous.”

“You love us,” Lance quips at her.

“Unfortunately.”

“Alright, let's get out of here,” Lance announces, scooting his chair back and pulling Keith up with him. “Meet you all out there?”

There's various responses of affirmation, and Allura pipes in: “I will be in the control room readying the castle defenses, but I think a race would indeed be a good warmup. Pidge, you scouted the planet. Is there a good checkpoint nearby?”

“There's a ravine a few miles south of here,” Pidge informs. “We could start from the plateau.”

“Why bother,” Keith huffs, fingers interlocked with Lance's as they thread their way across the room. “We know I'm gonna win.”

“Why don't you prove it outside, Babe,” Lance snorts.

Keith's ears flick towards him, an instant, automatic response that Keith has stopped even dreaming of trying to control. “Think you stand a chance, Cargo Pilot?” he retorts, squeezing Lance's fingers in his own in an incongruous sign of affection compared to his words.

“Oh, I think I know how to make you slip up,” Lance purrs, slowing his pace until he's closer to walking besides Keith. “Maybe when I win, I'll reward you for being such a good boy, losing so graciously, looking so pretty while you do.”

Keith nearly fucking trips over absolutely nothing. Damn Lance and his mouth—between what it does and what it says, he so absolutely screwed. The worst part is, he's not entirely upset about that fact. Still, he puts on a fighting front, even though his legs are having trouble working properly and he _knows_ Lance can see him blushing. “Oh, you're on. Don't talk shit unless you can back it up.”

“I don't make promises I can't keep,” Lance echoes an earlier statement, and it plays havoc on Keith's nerves, freezing them while they spark with electricity. He doesn't realize he's stopped walking until Lance is laughing as he tugs Keith forward.

“Fu-fuck you,” he manages in retaliation.

“After training,” Lance assures. _Assures_.

He stumbles after Lance out of the room, and barely registers Pidge's groan. “Daaaad, _make them stop_. It was bad enough with the pining, but the flirting is _terrible_.”

Shiro chuckles in response.

 

 

 

As it turns out, Lance might be able to keep his promises in— _other_ areas—of his expertise but not in this one. Keith swoops past the castle with a cry of victory, feeling the wind rush past him through Red. He pulls up and does half a backflip before rolling over mid-air to hover as the other paladins catch up.

Shiro comes in second, breathing hard over the comms from the focus. “No way,” he finally huffs, pulling up next to Keith, and he feels Black's rumble of approval through Red, who purrs, satisfied, in response.

Lance whooshes past next, skidding to an unceremonious stop. “Not fair!” he shouts at Keith through the comms. “I thought we were racing back to the plateau! I could have overtaken you at the end!”

“Ha—ha,” Keith deadpans, cracking his knuckles expectantly now that Red is thrumming through his veins with excitement, and he can feel the pull of Blue and Black from being so close and so complete.

“Shitshitshit!” Pidge cries. “Lance MOVE!”

There's a yelp from Lance, followed by incoherent shouting, as Pidge rockets into Blue's backside, sending both lions tumbling. A halfhearted tussle follows as Green tries to shove Blue off but Blue decides the better option is to adamantly sit on top of her fellow lion. Shiro's chuckling over the comms, and Lance and Pidge are making choked, spluttery noises that sets off Keith's laughter too.

Yellow ambles up a moment later, with Hunk having pretty much given up on the 'race' aspect, even though he kept up a steady pace with the rest of them (just at the back). Yellow lopes over and nudges Blue off Green with an easy prod of paws. Blue goes sprawling, followed by an indignant squawk of protest from Lance.

“Alright paladins,” Allura's voice pops into the rooms, ever cheerful about training, but still serious. “I know it has been a while, but please. You can play later. The defenses are ready. I want to do some maneuvers with the lions, but afterward you should form Voltron and see if there are any... lasting effects due to Keith's condition.”

“Sounds good, Allura,” Shiro says.

“I won't break down at the word, you know,” Keith points out, feeling very reasonable. “You can just say that I'm blind.”

“While your words do ease my uncertainty some, Keith, I'm not entirely sure if I trust their complete validity,” Allura responds. “No offense.”

Keith shrugs. “None taken, I guess. You just don't have to be so careful.”

“Noted,” Allura says. “Now, ready, paladins?”

“Bring it!” Lance pipes up.

Without further warning, Keith hears the fire of the castle's guns in the distance, and through Red's eyes: he sees the shots a moment later. It's a simple volley—Allura must be going easy on them to contrast the little warning. Shiro calls out something, but it drowns in the sound of shots hitting the ground where Red was a split-second before Keith edged her to the right.

Pidge yells, and Keith directs Red's focus on the Green lion. But Green is bounding across the terrain, and it takes him a moment to realize it's a whoop of joy and not distress. Shiro turns and blasts into the air, Black dancing around lasers, and Hunk lifts off, nearly ramming into Red in his haste to avoid the shots.

“Watch out!” Keith says, but even he's surprised at the lightheartedness in his voice. Spinning around in a backflip to dodge another laser, he ducks under Yellow's body, brushing his paws with a harsh nuzzle from Red. Hunk lets out a soft yelp of surprise from the jolt, but then chuckles.

Lance is peeling off after Pidge, but Blue lets out a roar and takes off into the air, almost bumping Black as she rockets upwards, leading some seeking missiles off into the sky before doing a tight flip that makes them lose track and spiral out of control to the ground. “Oh, yeah!” Lance shouts, triumphant.

“Don't leave me behind!” Pidge calls, and before long Green is joining them in the air.

They all hover for a moment, breathing hard in the silence after the attacks, and then Keith throws his head back and _laughs_. He must sound hysterical or something, because the others are all asking if he's okay over the comms, but Keith's still laughing through the next round of laser shots. It takes him until the next break in the castle's attack to catch his breath and form words. “I just... Sorry, I missed this, you guys. I really did.”

“Man, Keith got sappy while I was out,” Shiro comments, and he can hear the teasing in his voice.

“Sh-shut up!” he manages, though he's grinning and he can't help it. “I've already established torture makes me emotional. We're not gonna talk about it.”

There's an odd silence, but Keith just shrugs into it, hoping the others can see him over the comms. “I appreciate you guys. Let's leave it at that.”

Hunk makes a cooing noise, a little sad-sounding, but otherwise fine, and Keith flashes a grin that probably looks a little too predatory with the way his canines are poking dangerously into his bottom lip. Pidge echoes back a little: “You're a good friend, Keith.”

“Do you?” Shiro almost cuts Pidge off, his voice raising over their's just as they finish speaking so that the words are clipped short. “Want to talk about it, I mean?”

“I'm... good,” Keith hums after a moment's deliberation, but really it's just a moment of silence. He doesn't let his mind wander back there, doesn't let it consume him, because as long as he can keep this numb association of blankness with the events that happened in Haggar's torture chamber, he can make it through this. As long as he keeps that locked away and pushed as far from his mind as possible, he can be _okay_. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“Keith—” Lance starts, sounding just a bit broken, but then the castle fires off another volley and they all go scrambling, splitting up to deal with the sudden rush of the attack. As adrenaline thrums through Keith's body in the pause that follows, he's forgotten all about the past conversation, and forgotten all about the way Lance's voice sounded like the crack of broken glass underfoot.

On the next round, they somewhat accidentally form Voltron. Black was calling for it, Keith could feel it in the way they tugged at Red's consciousness, and thus his own. He could feel the tethers to Blue and Yellow and Green, and he was hyperaware of the sound of Lance's intake of breath with Shiro, sounding equal parts surprised and focused, yelled: “Form Voltron!”

“While I don't think that was intended,” Allura hums thoughtfully over the comms. “That was the most flawless transformation you have had in a long time. I...”

Whatever Allura was going to say next is drowned out by four paladins in various degrees of panic.

“What the shit!” Lance. That's Lance's frantic voice.

A vaguely confused and distressed whimper from Hunk.

“Fucking shit fuck.” Obviously Pidge, just based on the language alone.

Shiro doesn't even scold them, either, instead muttering an incoherent curse that must be in Altean because Allura sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay someone's going to have to give me a play-by-play because I have no idea what's going on,” Keith grumbles.

“What the hell! It's happening again!” Pidge yelps.

“Still confused,” Keith tries to raise his voice over the clamor of panic, and caution is blooming in his own chest, but Red thrums a gentle purr through him, reassuring. If something was wrong, the lions would be freaking out, too, but he can feel the distant pull of the other four, patient and calming. Blue is especially soothing, comfort drumming off her in waves.

“Paladins? Is everything alright?” Keith picks out Allura's voice from the cacophony. He can't hear Lance anymore, but Hunk and Pidge, and even Shiro occasionally are making up for it.

“That's enough!” Shiro finally growls, above the din of everyone else. “Pidge, Hunk, pull yourselves together.”

They seem to listen, but in the absence of their rambling, Keith can hear, faint, Lance's voice echoing: “You can do this. For Keith. You promised. You promised you promised you promised. Close your eyes. Close your eyes.”

“Lance?” Keith asks, and the caution turns to outright concern, fizzling through his blood. He strains to hear the nuances of Lance's tone, but over the crackling communications system, he fails to make anything out beyond the words themselves.

“Lance is right,” Shiro says, all leader, all command. “Close your eyes. Ride it out. Keith, stay put, we'll get back—ugh—to y-you in a second.”

“Oookay,” Keith drawls, brave front automatically forced to the front. His heart hammers against his ribcage, wary and concerned and adrenaline-fueled, while Red remains decidedly unhelpful by pumping him full of fresh excitement while simultaneously settling a calming purr over the cockpit.

Keith is torn between echoing the sound back and choking on it. He hears someone start to take steadying breaths over the comms, and realizes Lance had fallen silent when Shiro spoke up.

“Are you guys okay?” Keith asks, feeling timid for some Godforsaken reason, as if the noise will send everything shattering back into chaos.

“We will be,” Shiro breathes out. “That was—kind of intense.”

“What happened?”

“Red must have shared some of your memories with us. Well, maybe it was Blue—I'm not sure. We all just got a taste of what it was like in the prison I think. And your blindness is still affecting us. At least for me. My vision is foggy, but I can mostly see.”

“Oh,” Keith gasps out. “What—what did you, uh, see? What memories?” He swallows hard.

“Nothing pretty,” Shiro answers, calm, collected. “I got an image of you crumpled on the floor, and then... being...”

Keith closes his eyes, as if squeezing them shut will block the image from his head. He takes a long breath. “...Whipped?” he finally offers, letting air out through his nose. Red thrums through his veins, and it helps to soothe down the panic. Shiro grunts an affirmative as the answer to his question. “Those sound like Lance's memories, not mine. He was there for that... particular instance.”

“Oh,” Shiro whispers. “Oh, Keith. What the hell did they do to you?”

Lance whines, high-pitched and desperate.

“Shh,” Keith is instantly humming, trying to calm him. “It's okay, Lance. I'm here. I'm here. Don't worry. You can feel me here, can't you?”

There's a whimpered response, but he sounds a little bit better. Keith lets a purr rumble through his chest, a simple sound that hopefully Lance has come to associate with comfort. Red adds to it, shuddering slightly with the effort against the body of Voltron.

“Okay, okay,” Lance finally says. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Yeah, you can,” Keith tells him. “You can.”

“Shiro,” Hunk cuts in, sounding beyond worried. “You said you could see?”

“Yeah. What's up, Hunk?”

“I... can't see at all. Nothing. Everything's black.”

“Same here,” Pidge pipes up, voice small and scared.

“I guess... There's some sort of coupling effect with Keith's blindness. It must be projected onto the rest of us in varying degrees. Lance, how's your end?”

“Fuzzy,” he says. “Vague shapes.”

“Red gave me really unhelpful _feelings_ when I first started working with her. Maybe you guys just need to bond with your lions more? It's a big trust thing.”

“Keith's right,” Shiro admits after a moment of deliberation. “I almost see better with my eyes closed—” he ignores Keith's sarcastic _me too_ , and continues on: “Trust your lions, guys. They'll guide you. And if it comes down to the worst, Keith, Lance, and I should be able to keep Voltron steady for now.”

“Any other tips?” Hunk asks. “'Cause I'm still not getting anything.”

“Tell us what it's like, Keith,” Pidge blurts. “Maybe we can tune in on the same thought frequency or something.”

“What what's like?” Keith asks.

“Being blind.”

“Oh,” he says, and takes another deep breath. “Well... You miss a lot of things. There's a lot of stuff you can't see—obviously.” Pidge snorts. “And, uhm, I guess everything else picks up. You notice more. Like I can tell you guys apart by your scent now.”

“Little creepy,” Hunk interjects. “Okay, lotta creepy.”

Keith ignores him. “It's not so much that you need to _see_ to be able to _know_. Your eyes are just a passageway. They can be detoured around. Let your lions find the detour and guide you along it until you can see through them.”

“That was surprisingly profound,” Pidge comments. “And the most bullshit thing is I think it's working.”

Hunk rumbles a protest. “Really? 'Cause I'm not... Oh, oh wow. That's pretty cool.”

“Report in,” Shiro calls.

“I can see things, kind of,” Pidge says. “They're like... categories. I know where the plateau and the castle are by their color.”

“Okay _that's_ weird,” Keith quips.

Pidge blows a raspberry at him, and he's glad they're feeling better enough now to tease.

“Lance, any better?” Shiro asks.

“Little bit,” he calls back, though his voice sounds far away, small. “Everything is tinted gray for me. I can see but it's like watching one of those old movies with the flickery film.”

“Right. Hunk?”

“Still can't _see_ , but I can kind of feel things? Like how you know you're outside because of the sun's warmth, or when you know you walked into a kitchen because you can feel the heat from the oven.”

“We'll work on this,” Shiro decides.

“Paladins, are you alright?”

“We'll be fine,” Shiro reports to Allura's voice over the comms. “Minor setbacks due to certain developments. Keith, your visuals are fine, right?”

“Visuals? You know the answer to that one,” he snarks. “But in essence, yeah. I've started being able to tell colors, kinda—not exactly—I dunno. It's weird. But I can react well enough, anyway.”

“Sorry,” Shiro hums, sounding genuine, but Keith just makes a noncommittal noise in response. “Princess, send us a couple of shots. Slowly. We need to take some time to get used to this. Keith, be ready to use the sword to block because Pidge might not have the reaction time with the shield. Hunk, Lance, just try and hold us steady.”

There's a chorus of responses, ranging from Keith's unconcerned _sure_ , to Hunk's high-pitched squeak. Keith feels the world shift as Hunk and Lance work to find a stance. It's not perfect—certainly not steady enough to take more than a few shots—but it's better than the stiff posture they had been in before. Keith has to feel across the cockpit to find where to insert his bayard, but once he finds it, he feels the familiar thrum of power and responsibility as Voltron's sword emerges.

“Pidge?” Shiro warns.

“On it—kind of—trying.” Their words stumble, but they sound confident at least to some degree, at least compared to Hunk's hitched breath as he tries to keep them from toppling.

Keith hears the volley of shots, reads Shiro and Black's intent—they're the control of the team, but Keith and Red are the follow through—and he raises the sword, ready to parry any of the lasers to the best of his ability.

“Pidge!” Shiro yells.

There's a muffled, panicked response, hasty but still not exactly scared. They're trying, they really are, but Pidge and Green still aren't quite on the same page. The shield forms, for a split second, just barely managing to block the first shot, but then falls away, useless. The next shot is blazing towards them, and Pidge lets out a yelp, readying to take the hit while Hunk screams for them, even though the castle defenses would never actually be strong enough to do permanent damage.

But then Keith is there, and Lance manages to pivot back. The blast glances off the sword, firing into the distance where it billows dust from the ground when it hits. Lance breathes out a shaky sigh. “Okay, okay. Getting the hang of this.”

“You're doing good,” Keith replies instantly, unashamed of the praise that now flows so freely between them.

“Hunk, keep it up,” Lance calls, voice still wavering a bit. “Come on, Buddy.”

“I don't know, Man—this is... this is really freaky,” Hunk stutters back.

“You can do it,” Shiro reassures. “Everyone—brace yourselves. Hunk, Lance, see if you can plant us. Pidge, after this shot, try and get the shield up again.”

Pidge hums an affirmation, and eventually they get a consent out of Hunk and Voltron lowers into a more balanced, crouched stance that has them far steadier and ready to take a hit rather than dodge it. They dip a little precariously at first, Lance giving out slightly underneath them when he first takes the extra weight in the back of the stance, but then he recovers and Voltron rights itself, standing (mostly) strong.

The castle fires again, and Keith lifts the blade, fed thoughts from Shiro and Black and Red, and even trace emotion from the others—Pidge's determination and Hunk's fear, and Lance's steady _presence_. He _knows_ when Pidge forms the shield without having to use Red's sight or his own senses to tell. It flushes over him with a thrum of power and success, shared over the tether of their lions.

Pidge gives a whoop as the lasers thud dully against the raised shield, and they even manage a quick shift to catch a shot aiming at Red on Voltron's shoulder. Keith could have gotten it, but Pidge was far more ready this time, lunging into action with far more precision than necessary for the drill.

“I got it, _I got it_ ,” Pidge cries triumphantly.

Shiro thrums with pride, and Keith feels it simmer in his blood. “Good job, Pidge. Lance, Hunk, holding up?”

“Was that a pun,” Lance deadpans.

Hunk barks out a nervous, surprised laugh. “I—yeah, yeah I'm good. It's not as scary now. But damn, Keith—I don't know how you deal with this all the time.”

Keith snorts, chest tightening. “It's terrifying,” he admits, and tries to hold back the emotion that threatens to lace his tone with poison. “I have the opposite problem though. This is the only time I can see, so I guess it's scarier for you guys—being in the pilot seat and being blind.”

Hunk lets out a soft, contemplative hum. “It's freaky, but you're wrong. I'd be scared to live like this. Fighting, maybe I could deal with—I mean, it'd be hard, but I have Yellow and you guys and I could deal, but... isn't it lonely?”

Keith presses his lips together, quiet. Red purrs through him, reassuring and thriving. “Yeah,” he manages. He misses them. He misses seeing them. He misses Lance's eyes, and Shiro's smile, and Allura's dancing, and Coran's mannerisms, and Pidge's mischievous glare, and the way Hunk's eyes crinkle when he laughs. He misses it all. He misses Red when he's out of the cockpit, gently brushing him with a nose or a paw, or the way she pounces in the hangar as if she's chasing mice, or the way she would roll over and let him sit on her stomach, staring up and trying to memorize constellations that would change the next wormhole jump. Keith aches for it all. “Yeah, it's lonely.”

“We're here for you,” Shiro says without hesitation. “I know I—I know I haven't been the best leader the past couple of weeks, but I'm trying guys. We're gonna do this together.”

“Yeah!” Pidge cries, still pumped. “Hunk, stop being sappy and get your shit together! You're awesome and you can do this! We're gonna be the best defenders of the universe ever!”

“I think we're the only defenders of the universe at the moment,” Keith points out.

“Keith, I'm acknowledging Pidge's pep talk and it's actually helping me chill, so take your pessimism and book it,” Hunk huffs, but Keith can hear the joking in his tone.

“Okay, fine, fine,” Keith relents.

After a moment, he hears Lance whisper: “Pidge is right. We are gonna be the best damn defenders of the universe that this universe has ever seen.”

“Damn straight,” Shiro pipes in, and then suddenly they all get thrown back against their seats because Allura managed to get them with one of the laser beams while they weren't paying attention and now Voltron is tumbling across the terrain. “Heh, okay, we might still need some work,” Shiro pants, but Keith can hear the smile in his voice.

 

 

 

When they all tumble out of their lions, tired and panting and probably way too worked up for the simple training session they had, Keith is swept into a crushing hug from Hunk.

“Thanks,” he breathes, giving him one last bone-cracking squeeze. “You're really awesome, Keith. I wouldn't be able to be that strong.”

Keith shrugs. “I don't have a choice.” But the words are powerful—they thrum through his bones and land heavily against the castle floor, a dead weight.

Hunk pulls back, hand still resting on Keith's shoulder. “Well, thanks. I feel closer to Yellow now because of today. Closer to everyone. Because of you. You brought us together.”

“Hunk's right,” Shiro pipes in from where Keith presumes is the doorway to Red's hangar.

Suddenly there's something latching onto him and he's being climbed like a tree. Pidge squeezes his sides with their thighs while they hover on his back, and Keith almost falls over if not for Lance automatically going to steady him. Lance had been in the room already—long before the others—Keith had scented him as soon as he got out of Red, and was aware of his presence even though Lance was doing a rather good job of staying quiet.

“Pidge—Pidge _why_ ,” Keith chokes out, the hand gripping his shoulder almost painfully tight as they held on. They proceed to prod his ears, and Keith flattens them back against his head out of instinct.

“Oh, stop that,” Pidge huffs, and he feels their breath on his neck. “I'm checking something. I have an idea. Hold still.”

Keith slowly relaxes, letting Pidge pull and tug on one of his ears, and he only hisses twice, which is probably a record in some respect because _don't touch those, they're sensitive and dammit Pidge's little grabby hands hurt_.

Then they climb down him and scamper off, and Keith's ear keeps twitching because he can still feel ghost fingers on his fur and Lance's hand warming the small of his back as the others trail out of the room.

Keith loops his arm around Lance waist. “I'm holding you to that promise you made earlier.”

Lance freezes for a moment, and then presses a kiss to Keith's temple. “Shower first, and then we'll see how good you are for me.”

Keith shivers and lets Lance lead him back to his room.

 

 

 

Keith tumbles onto the bed first, still high-strung, though Red wasn't as rough with him as last time, and the mood of the team probably put a bit of a damper on any sort of satisfaction beyond their success as Voltron. Still, he can feel the gentle sing of his lion in his veins, no matter how distant.

Lance joins him a moment later, warmth hovering over Keith's body as he brushes their chests together. The simple contact along with anticipation is enough to make his cock twitch in his pants, just beginning to strain against the fabric, and as his hands trail to Lance's waist... “Holy shit,” he breathes, a mixture of awe and incredulously. “You're not wearing anything?”

“Figured it wasn't worth it if I was just gonna take 'em off,” Lance murmurs, pressing kisses to Keith's collarbone. “Dunno why you put anything on.”

Keith swallows. “Thought we might—do other things a while first?”

“Like what?” Lance hums, nipping lightly at Keith's neck, and Keith feels the grin against his skin when his breath hitches slightly.

“I—uh—kissing?” Keith offers, though he's not exactly sure he's coherent.

“Relax,” Lance purrs, sounding far more devilish than the comforting rumble Keith usually emits. “I'm going to take this nice and slow, and you're going to be a good boy, and we'll take it from there, okay?”

The words flash through Keith, leaving him warm and vaguely floaty. He doesn't trust his voice to work at all, much less convey what he actually means, so he nods and hopes Lance can see him. Lance goes back to peppering kisses on Keith's skin, trailing warmth from his lips, and then raises himself back up to trade languid kisses with Keith.

It's not especially heated, but it's filled with _intent_. It's commanding, and Keith is drowning in it: the way Lance gently but firmly pries his lips open to explore his mouth, drawing gasps and purrs from Keith even without the touch of his hands, and even in all its gentleness, Keith can feel the tremor in Lance's nerves. A mixture of anxiety—that he can smell off Lance, and it soothes his own nerves to know Lance isn't perfectly confident in this too—and barely contained desire.

Lance wants to let go. Wants to devour him, and yet instead he's taking his time, nibbling off bits of Keith, bite by bite and kiss by kiss to savor him instead. Keith whimpers at the thought.

“What's wrong?” Lance asks, concerned, as he pulls back.

“Y-you don't—” Keith breaks off with a crack of his voice, trying to regain himself, but before he can say anything else, Lance's hand has trailed down to his nipple, thumb pad running over until it hardens under his fingertips. Keith whines again.

“I've barely touched you,” Lance says, low and sultry. “And you already look wrecked.”

“Lance—” Keith manages, but Lance pinches his nipple slightly, and Keith arches off the bed as the breath rushes out of him.

It's torture, he knows, this anticipation—the achingly slow pace Lance is setting, because Keith had said he liked it like that. And, ironically, considering his experience in the Galra prisons, Keith is absolutely reveling in this sort of torment. Yeah, his cock is throbbing against his pants, but he feels _cherished_. He feels adored and cared for and—

“You're beautiful,” Lance breathes. “So beautiful, the way you come apart under me. And I haven't even done anything to you yet. You're going to be a doll and let me top tonight, right? Because I'd like to see if I can get you to come on my cock alone.”

Keith whimpers, and bucks against the air, thighs hitting Lance's legs where they straddle too low on his body for Keith to find any friction there. “Shh,” Lance purrs. “You're doing so well.” As if to punctuate this thought, Lance gives another pinch on his nipple, and then sets to work mouthing over the other, swirling his tongue and nipping in soft playful movements.

Keith can only really let out a low groan, thrusting up to try and meet Lance's hips now that Lance is hovering over him again, but the blue paladin just shifts upward with him, never letting Keith get the contact he's chasing. Lance bites down particularly hard, earning a loud yelp from Keith and then a moan when he begins to sooth the sensitive flesh with the flat of his tongue.

“More,” Keith pants, threading his fingers through Lance's hair because otherwise he would be swept away in the tide of sensation. “Pl-please—”

“What do you want?” Lance tilts his head sideways, resting his cheek against Keith's heaving chest. “Tell me. I wanna hear you beg.”

“La-ance,” Keith pants, tugging slightly on the other's hair. “Fuck—Lance.”

“Oh, come on,” Lance replies, pressing the softest of kisses onto Keith's heated skin. “Don't be like that. You sound so pretty when you're breathless. I want to hear you beg with that lovely voice of yours.”

Keith feels the shudder take over his spine, and he manages to get his legs around Lance's waist, grinding up against Lance's hip with _just enough_... Except he needs more, more, and Lance is smirking against his skin while he whimpers, reduced to a shaking mess before they've even started. “F-fuck—me. Fuck me, Lance. _Please_.”

“Hmm, well since you asked _so nicely_ ,” Lance fires back, still teasing. He reaches for the waistband of Keith's pants, and Keith can't help bucking up towards his hands before Lance settles his ass more firmly against Keith's thighs to pin him. Keith shudders as Lance helps him out of his pants and underwear, and the air helps to cool flushed skin for only a moment.

He hears Lance grunt as his weight shifts on the bed. “Front left pocket,” Lance says, as something flops against Keith's chest.

Keith fumbles with the jacket, trying to find the right way up—except he drops it back down when Lance's lips encase the head of his cock, tongue pressing the slit, and Keith's head falls back in absolute bliss. Lance holds his hips down while he meticulously works Keith, never taking him very far in his mouth, but always a mixture of stimulation and care that has Keith fuzzing between the edge of pleasure and untamed desire.

He growls before he can stop it, but it stutters out with an awkward pitch, and there's no malice. Only distress. Lance grins around Keith's cock, and Keith may not be able to see it now, but he's seen the expression enough times that he knows the haughty look on Lance's face.

Pulling himself into some semblance of reality, Keith searches in the jacket pockets, fingers shaking as he pulls a small bottle out.

“Wh-where did you—” Keith starts, but Lance's head pops up.

“Not that one!” he reaches forward and hastily plucks the bottle from Keith's hand.

“What—why? What was that?”

Lance is silent for a moment.

“Lance?”

“The quintessence,” he admits softly, and gets off the bed, presumably to put the bottle away somewhere.

Keith bristles without meaning to. “Why do you still have it?”

“Just in case,” Lance replies, a little coolly. “You never know. I'm sorry. I forgot I had it in there. Here, give me... if you're still okay with this?”

Keith swallows, and collects the jacket off his chest, holding it out in the vague direction of Lance's voice. “Yeah,” he says. “I'd like to keep going if you're offering.”

There's the sound of fabric hitting the floor as Lance tosses the jacket away. He shifts so that one of Keith's legs is bent, and he kisses his knee. Keith feels his body twitch at the simple contact. “Of course,” he says, breathing fanning over Keith's skin. He grazes his teeth over the same place he kissed, just to keep Keith guessing about what sensation is coming next. “Here,” he says, and presses a bottle into Keith's hand. “You start. I wanna see how pretty you look fingering yourself.”

Keith pauses. “Claws,” he points out.

“Ah, damn,” Lance says. “Here, give me.”

Keith carefully holds out his hand, unsure where Lance is. The bottle is plucked from his hands and he hears the sound of the cap being popped open. “Okay. I was going to ask earlier, but do I want to know...?”

“Probably not,” Lance replies. “But it's safe. I've—I've used it.”

And that thought sends heat pooling through Keith's gut, because he knows Lance hasn't been getting any from the aliens they've encountered recently, so his words can only mean one thing. And even if Keith can't see, he can _imagine_ , and in his mind's eye, the visual of Lance fingering himself, breathless and twitchy from pleasure, is enough to draw a moan from Keith's lips.

“Here,” Lance says, tapping fingers against the side of Keith's hip. “Up.”

Keith obeys, and feels Lance slip a pillow underneath him. Lance's fingers ghost over Keith's skin, over his thighs and then down, past his throbbing cock where Keith _really_ wants to be touched. Lance traces a finger over his hole, careful, before pushing slowly in.

“Jesus,” Lance whispers in awe, fingers of his other hand digging into Keith's thighs where he's latched on. Keith holds his breath until Lance is up his knuckle, and forces himself to relax.

Lance's movements are torture in the best way. The press of his finger, careful and exploratory, is tantalizingly slow. For a moment, he searches, and then Keith jerks with sensation when Lance finds his prostate and teases around it. Keith whimpers, a plead for... something, but then everything he's doing stutters off with a soft “Ah!” as suddenly another one of Lance's fingers slips in.

Mouth falling open, Keith arches off the bed to try and bear down on Lance's hands. So close—so close to where he wants it, and then as if Lance _knows_ , he curls his fingers just right and Keith cries out. “Yesyesyes,” he manages, absolutely breathless as Lance presses mercilessly now against Keith's prostate, and it's then, as Lance is keeping him on the edge of overstimulation and absolute heaven, that the purr stutters to life, somehow forcing out even though Keith isn't sure if he's still breathing.

He's shaking, he can tell, clutching at the bed and Lance's shoulders. He thrusts up in the slightest of jerky movements, meeting Lance's hand as he massages Keith's inside, petting and prodding and making Keith work his voice raw. Far beyond the floaty feeling now, Keith is _drowning_. He burns for air and Lance and he needs _more_. Wants to swim down until he can't feel the heat of the sunlight anymore because all he needs is this—is Lance.

“So pretty,” Lance hums, and adds another finger.

Keith cries out.

Lance doesn't react, so he must be doing the silent thing from earlier. But Keith can hear his own voice bouncing off the walls around him, echoing back with the same blissed-out noise. “L-Lan...” But he can't even finish the name, voice replaced by ragged pants as he squirms to get closer to his boyfriend.

Lance hasn't changed the pace of his fingers since he started, either—it's still the same slow drag, crook and twist just enough to hit Keith's prostate until he's dizzy with sensation, and then pull back only to repeat. It's a steady rhythm that gives Keith just enough time to suck in oxygen before Lance is driving him off the cliff of euphoria again.

Part of him regrets it; the rest of him has ascended into the afterlife. Lance is as sinful as he is amazing.

“How are you doing?” Lance asks as he leans down to press a kiss to Keith's hip. Keith twitches in response, and Lance stills inside him to give Keith a chance to form words.

“Fu-uck,” Keith breathes, and instinctively grinds his hips on Lance's hand as best he can, searching for movement and attention. The purr is still going strong, rumbling through his body. He has to talk around the flow of air in a rough voice: “La-Lance, f-fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you've been such a good boy,” Lance purrs, and curls his fingers, drawing out another cry that's apparently silent to his ears. “You look absolutely gorgeous like this.”

It takes a strength Keith didn't know he possessed not to come on the spot.

“Are you sure?” Lance presses, as he slowly draws his fingers out.

“ _Yes,_ ” Keith growls and trembles at the empty feeling, the purr trailing off into nothing but heavy breathing.

Lance reaches down and kisses him, slow and languid and not at all what Keith is searching for, especially with his entire body tense in expectation. Lance sweeps his tongue over Keith's bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth, and Keith moans as he barely manages to lift himself up to chase after the kiss. It's not what he wants, and yet he's still desperate for it. He has it so bad for this boy, for his touch and his kiss and his laugh, that it's not even funny.

He falls back against the mattress, unable to hold himself up for longer than a couple of seconds before his muscles give out. He hears Lance open the bottle again, and forces himself to relax, and to _not jump Lance and ride him the way his brain so helpfully offers as a solution_.

Keith whimpers as Lance grabs him by the hips and tugs him forward. He braces for the sensation of being filled, readies for the sharp pain of suddenness, but no—Lance was only moving him, and he lets out a disappointed whine. Lance brushes his hands over Keith's sides, moving up until he hovers over him, one hand planted onto the mattress just over Keith's shoulder. “Ready?”

In response, Keith curls one of his legs around the back of Lance's thigh, squeezing in an attempt to tug him forward.

“Okay, okay,” Lance says, placating.

But Keith will not be soothed, not until—oh, _oh_.

Lance presses in, just inching the head of his cock into Keith, and Keith can't breathe, can't think—only ride through the mixture of subtle pain and absolute relief at being filled again. He's letting out a whimpered mixture of noise, somewhere between keening and groaning, with little pants and fragments of a purr added in. Lance leans forward to press the softest of kisses to his bottom lip as it trembles, and Keith melts against him.

Moments later, Lance bottoms out and Keith is already writhing in attempt to get more friction, more movement, more Lance. His own cock sits heavy against his stomach until Lance reaches down while he waits for Keith to adjust, and brushes his fingers along the underside. Keith throws his head back and moans.

“D-don't,” he manages, clutching to Lance's shoulders.

“I—sorry, do you want—”

“I'll c-come,” Keith pants, clinging to Lance before he can even finish the thought of stopping. Keith's too far gone for that. “Do-on't touch me. W-wanna come on just y-you.”

“Fucking Christ,” Lance curses, head falling down to rest on Keith's shoulders while he takes in a deep breath that shudders through both of them. “Y-you can't just say that shit.”

“What—” Keith starts, furrowing his brow, but he doesn't get the chance to point out Lance said this earlier because then Lance gives a soft roll of his hips, grinding just that ever-so-slight amount deeper into Keith, and he loses all semblance of thought.

Lance groans, planting a sloppy kiss on Keith's neck. “S-So good,” he gasps out, biting down until the first prick of pain sparks Keith's nerves to life. Lance gives another roll of his hips, pulling out further this time, still a little careful and experimental, and then hits home, and it's all Keith can do to hold onto any sort of control.

Lance doesn't pick up the pace yet, but he pulls back almost completely the next time, and then slams into Keith with far more force than he was expecting, and a hiss of—of what? Emotion? Pleasure? Keith doesn't know anymore—it's all sensation, all consuming. As much as he hates the analogy, it's like quintessence: Keith is a supernova of feeling under Lance's touch, the jerk of hips, the sensual brush of his lips.

“A-amazing,” Lance rasps, breath fanning across Keith's shoulder. “You're so beautiful.”

Keith purrs, the thrum of it in his blood cutting off whatever moan was in the process of being drawn out. The resulting noise is a choked sound, then the gentle vibration of his chest as he draws Lance closer until their chests brush with his movement.

“M-more,” Keith pleads, claws digging into Lance's skin but not hard enough to break through. “Want y-you.”

Lance nips at his collarbone. “Pr-prove it,” he pants, and the breathlessness of his voice should make the command less intimidating, but somehow it's just inexplicably hotter. “Beg.”

Keith growls, the sound competing with the purr that hums through his blood now. The brush of Lance's lips across his skin send small tremors through his body—he's long ago tried to stop the reaction of his oversensitive skin—but part of him, perhaps the Galra instinct, refuses to stand down for some reason.

Instead of obeying, Keith pulls Lance harshly down, his head falling to burrow in Keith's neck, and Keith latches his teeth onto Lance's shoulder. He bites until his human teeth hit flesh, canines piercing down as he tastes Lance's blood on his tongue. Lance lets out a soft yelp, but then as the Galra compound soothes the burn of pain, the sound shifts to a moan, ghosting against Keith's skin. His pace stutters as he falls pliant against Keith, and Keith laments the lack of friction immediately, but doesn't stop what he's doing.

Lance's blood should be setting him off—should send him back to the cell, all panic and despair—but instead he keeps going, lapping at the wound until Lance is trembling in his arms, and all Keith can think is _Lance, mine, mine, mine_.

Lance pulls in a shaking breath, the air dragging through his throat. “What—what... did you do?”

Keith pulls back, the growl-purr mixed sound spilling from his lips. “N-Not done,” he hisses, biting down harshly on his own wrist. The pain doesn't dull in the way it numbs for Lance—his own saliva doesn't work on him, and the sting blooms in full force. He tries to shift upwards, tilt Lance back, but his body betrays him, unable to hold himself up still, so he resorts to awkwardly flopping his arm over his face, wrist up. “Drink.”

He feels Lance hum with indecision in the way his body tenses, just slightly, and then his lips meet Keith's skin.

Keith feels the tension ease out of him—he's doing this, this is happening. It wasn't intentional, but here he is, and somehow he's entirely okay with it. A few moments later, Lance pulls back with a wet sound, followed by gentle licks at Keith's wrist until the blood stops flowing.

“I didn't know you had a thing—” Lance starts, teasingly, but then Keith grabs him, one hand on his shoulder and the other curled around the back of his neck.

Lance lets out a surprised noise as Keith tugs him down for a bruising, sloppy kiss, tasting the blood still on Lance's tongue when he shoves his own past Lance's lips. Lance falls against him, his entire weight on Keith's chest, and he moans into the kiss. Keith drinks in it all.

Lance pulls back, gasping for air. “H-holy shit.”

“I—I mated you,” Keith breathes, awed at himself and also proud, while part of him thrums with a newfound presence in his bones. Lance, Lance, Lance—he can feel him, feel the way confusion blooms through him, followed by quiet shock.

“You—what?” he squeaks.

“I mated you,” Keith states, the possessiveness taking over. He wants to take Lance. Wants Lance to take him. They're already so close, and as Lance shifts back, presumably to gaze at Keith with that intense sense of incredulousness, he can feel the shift of Lance's cock still in him and it reverberates through his entire body. “Galra—blood—mate,” he says, probably very unhelpful, but now that this ordeal is over with, he just wants to get back to the matter at hand. “Don't worry—” he adds, a little quieter. “There's no commitment on your part—it's not—it's just a bond.”

“Jesus,” Lance breathes. “The blood? You're a fucking vampire.”

“Where do you think humans got the idea?” Keith throws him a cocky grin. “You're the one fucking a vampire. Now, get on with it,” he growls the last part, rolling his hips enough to jostle Lance.

“What am I going to do with you,” Lance growls back, leaning back and tugging on Keith's hips until he's sprawled across Lance's legs.

“Wreck me,” Keith tells him, and damn it if he doesn't mean it.

It's Lance's turn to go aggressive, as he readjusts to hike Keith's legs over his hips and thrusts forward. This time, with Keith angled differently, Lance shoves hard against Keith's prostate and he spirals off into pleasure, the breath whooshing out of him. His entire body tingles with heat and adrenaline and Red and his mate. _His mate_.

He still can't believe he did it. Even more—he can't believe he didn't tell Lance: that Galra mate for life. There's too much pressure on his shoulders now, too much he has to bear with taking care of Keith; he doesn't need the added responsibility of loving him so deeply as well. If they're going to be like this—together—then Keith wants it to be entirely of Lance's own volition. Keith will bear the heartbreak and pain alone someday if it comes to it, and he's resigned himself to the fact he will only and entirely love Lance.

But those thoughts are only fleeting, dust in a windstorm too vengeful to contain, and Keith only feels the slightest flicker of sadness—not regret, only sadness—before Lance pulls back and slams into him again, tearing a cry from his throat that this time he's pretty sure Lance can hear because he whistles, low and breathy, in response.

“The—the others—are going to—fucking hear you,” Lance huffs, words punctuated with another thrust and a matching half-whine, half-cry from Keith. He arches his back, trying as best as he can to find leverage to meet the rush of Lance's hips.

“Th-thought—you—Hah—liked t-that?” Keith manages, though he's dreadfully close to being absolutely incoherent. He can feel himself drifting, caught in tidal wave and there's not much he can do but let it drown him, and he accepts it. Everything's warm—fuzzy—he can feel the fire in his gut tighten.

“I do,” Lance growls, hands bruising on Keith's hips as he hits home harder, beginning to pick up the pace to the point he's moving Keith's entire body when he buries his cock inside him. “Keep going,” he orders, and then drags Keith down in the same moment he shoves forward.

Keith yells again and it echoes around him. He hears Lance curse—and he's not sure if that's because the scream was silent or too loud, but Keith's beyond caring at this point. He's burning, feels his entire body tense, even though he's shaking, and Lance pounds into him, shoving him harder into the mattress, and then Keith comes across his chest.

He's pulled down under the surface, splutters some unintelligible noises that might have been growls or half-purrs or screams, and blacks out almost completely. Through the haze, as he rides out his orgasm, he hears Lance call out a broken, “Fu—uck,” and his movement stutters as he spills into Keith.

There's a few awkward jerks of Lance's hips, nerves spiking almost painfully as the sensation tips over to too much, and Keith gasps for breath. Lance collapses against him, apparently not caring for the mess on Keith's chest that's now smeared between them. Lance moves with the gentle shift of Keith's body as he remembers how to breathe normally, but the afterglow of pleasure still lingers in his blood.

“Okay,” Lance finally says to Keith's shoulder, still not moving. “I have questions.”

“Uh?” Keith manages. His mind is a haze, voice hoarse from calling out, and it takes him for longer than usual to process Lance's words into meaning. Absently, Keith trails a hand up Lance's side until he brushes the pad of his thumb over the puncture on Lance's shoulder, and his boyfriend shivers at the gesture.

“What was that—when you came, it like—hit me,” Lance murmurs, sounding tired but curious and mostly sated.

“Mating... bond,” Keith says slowly, marveling at the warmth of the wound under his fingertips. As far as he knows, Lance can't sense it, but Keith can feel the heat of it: the sing of his blood and Lance's in a call of Galran magic. Years ago, in the prison, Keith had seen mates become and fall apart in equal measures, and while he never vowed he'd never mate himself, he never did dream of it. Yet somehow, he has this wonderful boy in the circle of his arms and a promise to stay by his side forever, even if he's not ready to say that to Lance.

“Oh,” Lance responds, and then after a moment, he begins to shift away, and Keith winces at the discomfort of Lance pulling out of him. “Shower?” Lance asks.

“Mmph,” Keith responds, because that's easier that making his tongue cooperate with his head.

“Keith?” Lance runs a fingertip over Keith's cheek, and Keith unconsciously leans into his hand, chasing the sensation of the brush of his fingers. “You okay, Babe?”

“Mm, yeah?” Keith drawls, and hears Lance sigh.

“Oh, boy, you're really loopy. I can't believe my boyfriend gets high off of sex. I guess it could be worse. Stay here. I'm gonna go get a towel and clean you up, okay?”

Keith makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and then reaches for the lingering warmth of Lance's body, but he's too late and his hand flops against the mattress. When Lance returns a few moments later with a damp cloth to wipe down Keith's chest, Keith lets a purr rumble through him, soft and sweet and happy. Lance chuckles, pressing a kiss to Keith's cheek before hitching one of Keith's legs over his shoulder to clean the rest of him as best he can.

“You're gonna regret not showering,” Lance hums thoughtfully, after he's gotten rid of the towel and snuggled back into the lazy loop of Keith's arms.

Keith only burrows his nose into Lance's neck, inhaling the scent of lingering sweat and the tinge of magic and Lance. “Love you,” he murmurs, voice muffled both by the rawness of his throat and Lance's body.

“Do you want anything?” Lance offers, hand reaching up to pet Keith's ears and the purr grows louder, vibrating against Lance's neck. “Water?”

“Warm,” Keith replies, distinctly not answering Lance's question. He'll deal with the rest of it later—for now he's going to snuggle the shit out of his new mate and he can't bring himself to care if Lance keeps talking, even if it's out of concern, because Keith is far too gone to be pulled back from unconsciousness.

Lance sighs, and wraps his arms around Keith. “Love you too,” he whispers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentions of torture, praise kink, blood, mating bonds


	8. Night Eight

“ _You would knowingly sacrifice all those lives, as if they mean less than yours? As if they mean nothing? Where I come from, generals don't hide in their offices like cowards. They fight alongside their soldiers. They die with them on the battlefield. You should be ashamed.”_

\- _Wonder Woman_ (2017)

 

“Well you seem satisfied,” Shiro hums, smoothing his hand over Keith's shoulder in greeting. Keith both hears and feels the couch shift as Shiro sits nearby.

“What?” Keith asks, tilting his head in a quizzical expression.

He takes a bite of the energy bar—or at least, the closest they have to it—that he's eating, and then almost chokes when Pidge pipes in from across the lounge: “We could hear you last night.”

“Indeed,” Allura adds from where she's sitting somewhere near Pidge. “I'm happy for you two.”

Keith feels a blush heat his cheeks and he makes a strangled noise, dragging his free hand over his face. He's not sure if he's embarrassed or proud or just really annoyed, but no matter what, he blames Lance.

He feels the tug of his bones—the mating mark calls to him—long before anything else. “Nonono,” Lance says quickly as he walks into the room from behind Pidge and Allura. “Nope, Keith, no. You're not allowed to be blushy and cute the morning after. Stop it.”

Keith hisses at him, but before he can reply, he hears movement and Allura suck in a gasp. “Lance—are you alright?”

“Hmm?” Lance replies, sounding decidedly nonchalant. Worry spikes through Keith for a moment at Allura's words, but nothing _feels_ wrong, so he forces himself to relax. Lance drops down next to him on the couch, draping an arm over Keith's shoulders and stealing the forgotten energy bar from Keith's hand.

“Your neck,” Shiro points out. Then, in instant dad-mode: “Lance, Keith, do we need to talk?”

Keith lets out a distinctively distressed yelp of protest, but Lance reaches up to pet at his ears, and he sinks into the touch. “It's nothing,” Lance says around a mouthful of food, because he's a heathen apparently. And he complains about Keith having no manners after spending a year in the desert, but it's probably a bad habit as result of the huge family back on earth, Keith speculates.

“That's...” Allura begins, and then trails off.

Lance presses the energy bar back to Keith's hand, but Keith shakes his head, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture, and Lance mutters, “Suit yourself,” before he goes back to chewing.

Allura makes a sound that Keith can't quite decipher. It's a mixture of confused, concerned, and horrified. “Keith—your arm—did you _mate_ Lance?”

“I don't know about you Princess, but I definitely heard it,” Pidge quips. “Mating is one of the words you could use to describe what they were doing.”

“No, Pidge, you don't understand,” Allura adds hastily. “Galra—”

Keith cuts her off with as sharp a growl as he can muster, and Lance tenses beside him. “Jesus. Calm down.”

Keith bristles all the same. At least, until Lance giggles and the sound startles him into confusion, replacing his hostility.

“You're literally doing that cat thing—where they arch their back and get all floofy? Stop being adorable.” Lance smooths his hand over the back of Keith's neck, and the hair—fur—there prickles slightly as it's moved.

Keith takes a deep breath. “I know, Allura,” he says as calmly as he can manage, and then turns and buries his face in Lance's shoulder because it comforts him. The scent, the thrum of his blood in Lance's veins, the gentle warmth and affection.

“If you're sure,” Allura says slowly, carefully.

“I don't understand,” says Shiro, which the first thing he has to say on the subject. Apparently his time in the Galra prisons were not as educational as Keith's. Granted, Shiro was there for a much shorter time, and still has amnesia in regard to most of his experience.

“Galra mates... There's a special bond they create between each other. There's an intense ritual, which involves bloodletting, and—”

Pidge interrupts with an awed, “Holy shit.”

Keith huffs a breath into Lance's shoulder. “Altean records are not as accurate as you think, Allura,” he sighs. “The ritual was tradition, not necessity. It was Galran myth that the more painful, the stronger the bond would become.”

Allura lets out a thoughtful hum, but sounds wary. “If you say so.”

“How do you feel about this, Lance?” Shiro asks, ever the peacekeeper. Keith can hear the gentle concern lacing his tone, and part of him flares with protectiveness. Lance is _his_ mate. He knows how to protect him. He knows how to take care of him. But that's all instinct speaking, because Keith really isn't in a position to be caring for Lance, and more often than not it's been Lance helping him.

“It's nice,” says Lance. “I can send him memes with my brain.”

“What the fuck,” Pidge says, deadpan.

Keith groans. “Why are you like this.”

What Lance is referring to is earlier that morning when they'd been trying to use the mating bond to communicate. It's theoretically possible—well-known in Galra culture as a sign of the closest of mates, being able to send messages to each other at will through the harmonized song of their own blood. They never got it to work that morning, and Lance had admitted he was trying to send Keith an image of Kermit the Frog, and Keith had proceeded to push Lance off the bed until he tumbled to the floor, laughing.

“You love me,” Lance retorts, and kisses the top of Keith's head.

Keith pulls his face away from the crook of Lance's neck, mostly out of stubbornness than anything else. He does love Lance, and Lance knows this, but that doesn't stop Keith from pouting while he focuses his attention across the room. Allura's breathing is off—a little unsteady here and there, probably still processing the fact that she has a Galra mating pair on _her castle_.

So deciding it was definitely time to move away from that topic, Keith asks, “Where are Coran and Hunk?”

“Coran is recalibrating the teleduv while we're parked on Ciptic. He enlisted Hunk as a helper but I think that translated into polishing the scaultrite lenses,” Pidge explains. Then, after a slight pause: “Keith, I have to ask because it's literally eating through my brain and apparently Allura's records aren't trustworthy, and there's not much there anyway—but, uh, why are you... fluffy—now when before you were... not?”

Keith breathes out something between a chuckle and a sigh. “Galra half-breeds are surprisingly common, albeit _unknown_. The Galra have always been a dying race—they need new genes in the pool to sustain a healthy population. Half-Galrans have the unique situation of carrying a dominant Galra gene while being able to suppress the effects of it. It's a... breeding technique: infiltrate the foreign population with a half-breed, mate, bring the pups back to introduce their genes to the pool.”

“It's the opposite of Alteans, then?” Pidge inquires. “They can bring out traits in genes they don't specifically have to manipulate their appearance, right?”

Keith makes a noncommittal noise. “I suppose. I'm not very well-versed in Altean genetics.”

“So, fuzzy. Why aren't you suppressing the genes now? I mean—it's cool if you don't wanna. Lance is right. The ears are kinda cute.”

Keith grunts, and trails his hand along Lance's leg, then squeezes, nails pricking into Lance's thigh until he lets out a soft yelp. “I don't think I can completely anymore. I think I could change the claws, and maybe the skin tone—though I honestly have no clue on that one because I can't see. But I think the quintessence did some permanent damage on more than just my eyes. Besides, I think... I kind of rely on my Galra senses now.” He twitches his ears to accentuate his point.

“And can you explain the quintessence? According to the Altean records, it's pure energy. Life-giving. Why does it... hurt you?”

Keith feels himself wince in response to the thought. He remembers the taste of that agony on his tongue, filling his lungs and sight and searing away his flesh. He swallows thickly, but then Lance's hand is in his hair, scratching lightly and he eases into words at the coaxing. “It... _is_ life-giving. It heals. But it heals in the way swords are forged. Iron must be melted before it can be molded, and bones must be broken before they reform correctly. Quintessence tries to _perfect_ the Galra, when we are only broken, imperfect, and inhuman. It tries to fix and fix and fix—breaks and reshapes and shatters and sears and rebuilds until—until—”

He chokes on the breath he sucks in, and Keith feels himself shudder under the weight of memories. Sucked in, he barely registers as Lance draws him across his lap, lets him clutch at his skin and leaving pin-pricks of red, soothes whispers against Keith's forehead while he balances on the crumbling ledge of panic.

“Shit—I didn't mean...” Pidge starts, but they fade from existence. All that's left is the burn of quintessence, the thrum of it faintly coursing under his skin, the way it coats his insides, trying so hard to fix him. Make him whole again. Keith whimpers, futilely willing to still his jackhammer heartbeat, but it slams against the ribs he's broken far more times than he can count—and he couldn't count the seams in his bones, even, because the quintessence has ripped his scars from him too, so that he's only shaking and broken in his mind and sight while the rest of his body thrives.

It's unfair.

But then his blood hums a different tune—a singsong of longing and comfort and sympathetic pain. Lance. Lance's blood runs through his, and his wrist throbs, and out of instinct Keith surges towards Lance's shoulder, nosing into the bitemark, drawing _calm_ from the heat of it. Lance sucks in a breath, and Keith breathes with him, long and deep and somehow unbelievably freeing. He mouths over the puncture, lapping the salt from Lance's skin until he bites down.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears various reactions from the room—Allura's startled gasp, followed by a cry of anger, Pidge's distressed noise, and Shiro's concerned words—but the only thing Keith actually _listens_ for is Lance's airy whisper, “No, stay back. Let him.”

Lance's arms tighten around him, holding Keith to his body, while he sucks blood from a reopened wound. It's not a lot—Lance may have called him a vampire, but he really isn't—just enough to feel _Lance_ sweep through his veins, tingle along his nerves in a decidedly pleasant way that sets Keith instantly at ease. He lets his weight fall against Lance, and Lance shuffles him just barely, a hand curling into Keith's waist. Lazily, he licks at the puncture until the bleeding stops.

“The others are staring,” Lance whispers to Keith's hair.

He's suddenly acutely aware of where he is, but he can't find it in him to be ashamed of that. Lance is his mate, and sometimes Keith needs the emotional pick-me-up that comes from the rush of fresh bonding. “Pidge,” Keith says, not turning from where he's nuzzling Lance's jaw. “Quintessence works until our bodies can take it anymore. Until we burn out.”

He hears Pidge swallow hard, but they continue with the interrogation. “A-and you—why did they hurt you, if half-Galras are so useful to the species? Why were you so different?”

Keith presses a sad smirk against Lance's neck. “I wasn't different. I wasn't special. There were many of us. There were many screams. They just happened to like mine the best.”

The shocked silence that follows is response enough. Thousands of them: prisoners and slaves. Submissive. Made to be so from birth, when the Galra marked the first brand in the form of scars on a child's skin. Keith didn't remember what they first did to him—it was too long ago and too many had come to follow that it all hazed together in a dark sensation of memory.

There's a quiet, “oh,” sound as Pidge comes to grip with the reality of Keith's past. Lance's grip turns bruising, and Keith accepts the crushing hold with a soft gasp and whimper as he pulls at Lance's body, now completely settled into Lance's lap. The emotion of their bond is so overwhelming—Lance is all care, fierce protectiveness that Keith knows he should probably reign in except that he feels _safe_ like this.

Lance is his. Lance is home.

But Keith slowly, painfully, extracts himself from Lance. He pulls away from the tether, where they're currently so impossibly close that Keith can feel Lance's emotions like his own, a twin flame in his heart, until he only sees the remnant smoke.

Lance's arms restrict his movement for a moment, but then Keith is free to slide off his lap and land on shaky feet. Instantly, there's a hand on his arm to steady him—cool to the touch and inhuman.

“Are you okay, Keith?” Shiro asks, voice low, because Shiro of all people would know what it's like there, in the Galra prison—would know the kiss of knives and caress of poisonous words.

A low sound rumbles from behind Keith, and then Lance is right behind him, chest pressed into Keith's back while he hovers aggressively at his shoulder and growls out a dark noise like wolves challenging alphas. Shiro sucks in a sharp inhale and releases Keith. “Lance...” he starts, but Keith's voice overpowers him.

He leans back on Lance's chest—thrums a purr through his body even though it's not out of contentedness, but entirely to comfort Lance—and he feels some of the tension filter out of Lance's muscles.

“This is why I disapprove...” Allura begins, but someone must have done something to stop her from continuing the thought. Keith's not sure who and he's not sure how, or maybe Allura just thought better of finishing.

“We're a team, Lance,” Shiro says calmly, placating.

“We are,” assures Keith, reaching back with his hand until he finds Lance's and threads their fingers together. “It's okay, Lance. Let it go. I'm safe. It's just the mating bond. _Relax_.”

Lance squeezes his fingers, and then lets out a long breath as he lets go. “You're right. Sorry, Shiro—oof!” Keith feels a rush of air, followed by a foreign sense of belonging and comfort over the mating bond that he can only really translate into Lance getting one of Shiro's Proud Dad™ hugs. He feels his own surge of protectiveness bloom in his chest, sizzle through his blood because Lance is _his—_ his mate—but he quells the instinct. He's far more used to controlling Galra urges, whereas Lance is not. Hell, Lance isn't even running on his own instinct: he's running on Keith's.

Allura can't blame them for having an adjustment period.

As Lance is muttering another apology to Shiro, followed by quiet thanks, something rocks the castle—a blast from somewhere nearby.

“I hope that wasn't the teleduv,” Allura mutters. One of Keith's ears flicks towards her while the other stays pointed in the direction of the sound.

“That didn't sound like it was in the castle,” Pidge comments thoughtfully. “But the alarm—” And then the alarm blares, startling all of them. “Shit!”

“Get to your lions!” Shiro orders. “Lance, Keith—”

He doesn't have to finish; they already know. They're a good team, not just Keith and Lance, but the others too. Allura may have her doubts, but Keith translates Shiro's frantic tone long before the words register. They're under attack.

Keith swallows the fear as Lance hastily leads him through the castle hallways.

 

 

 

The Galra are relentless.

Through Red, Keith watches as Blue freezes over an entire Galran ship in one icy blast and it dips out of the sky. Red opens a hole through the tail-end of another ship, but doesn't get the chance to finish it off because she has to dodge out of the way of one of Hunk's hovering spikes of rock. Yellow rushes forward, protected from laser fire by the spinning earth surrounding him, and rakes claws from control room to cargo bay of another member of the fleet. Meanwhile, Pidge cleans up the ship Keith had attacked with a quick shot, vines encapsulating the ship as it falls to the planet surface.

“You guys alright?” Shiro calls over the comms. He's somewhere above them, using Black's better flight mobility and jawblade to rain hell from the upper atmosphere. He also serves as a distraction while the Castle fires its defenses.

“Peachy,” Pidge quips back.

“Good,” Shiro says without missing a beat, though his response is interrupted by a soft grunt before a Galra ship tumbles past Keith, nearly knocking Red out of the air. “Sarcasm from Pidge is a—heh—sign they're fine. Rest of you?”

“ _Fucking great_ ,” Keith hisses, as Red's tail flicks angrily after nearly being hit. He doesn't focus enough to decipher Hunk's incoherent reply as he aims a blast of fire at a Galra ship attempting to lock aim on Red.

“Holding out,” Lance reports, a little out of breath as Blue zips past Red again to dodge a laser. Blue's not meant for that sort of agility, and both Lance and Keith know it. She's wearing down, but Lance's determination is perhaps only rivaled by Keith, and while the battle may be pushing both paladin and lion to their limits, they aren't giving up. Red thrums with energy, a stubborn signal to the other lions to stay strong and stay focused.

Through Red, Keith feels the clipped response of Green, cut off by the need to aim a vine attack right down the barrel of a Galra cannon. The subsequent explosion from the blockage is accompanied with a satisfied purr from the Green lion and a whoop of victory from Pidge over the comms. Yellow's low rumble roots Keith to his seat: steady, strong—Hunk hurls the last two of his earthen shards through an enemy ship, and the planet trembles as he draws more pointed artillery from the ground— _powerful_.

Black practically roars in reply, grumbling loudly against Keith's mind—and Red answers the call as she dives through the hole she just blasted straight through a Galra ship to dodge another laser, making the Galra aim at their own falling ship instead. Blue's purr is gentle, especially in comparison to Black, all comfort and encouragement with a hint of strain. She's having the worst of this, Keith realizes, as Lance freezes over another ship, and Blue dips slightly in the sky, as if she's having trouble staying up. Both Keith's and Red's ears flick back against their heads in worry.

He can hear Lance's pants over the communication system, breath coming in ragged gasps. Then there's the sharp intake of breath as Lance realizes the Galra ship in front of him is about to fire its laser cannon at him, and Keith cries out a warning. Too late—too late—but Red flings herself forward anyway, to either push Blue out of the way or slam into the Galra ship and disrupt its targeting.

There's a _shhk_ of readied fire—the gun blazes to life—and then the ship explodes.

Keith lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and hisses out a broken, “ _Thanks, Allura_.”

Red's momentum has her flinging herself past Blue, but once she recovers and joins Blue, hovering, in the air, she touches her tail-tip to Blue's shoulder in a sign of comfort before turning, snarling, to the fleet before them. He feels Lance's relief through their mating bond, rather than through the lions, and is consumed with such a fierce protectiveness that Red responds by manifesting the rail gun and fires a destructive line across the ships in front of them.

Even as the row of ships fall, however, there are more to take up the fight. It's not this fact, however, that causes Keith to let out a string of messy curses, only to intensify when Shiro must see it too and he breathes out a quiet, “ _Fuck_.”

“Language,” Pidge quips at him and they fire away. When they stop to breathe, the catch sight of the falling coffin-like container, and then their own vicious cussing follows. “Goddammit—no, not now! We can't—”

“Someone please tell me that's not what I think it is,” Hunk mutters. “It is—isn't it? It was what I think it is. Can't we just get a break?”

“No,” Keith grunts. “Not from the Galra.” And then he lets out a yelp as Red shuffles suddenly backwards, bumping into Blue before both lions duck down to avoid laser fire.

Something ticks at the edge of Keith's mind, and when he hones in on it—some signal from Red, he assumes, but it isn't—he realizes is a fuzzy knowledge of another falling object, far off into the distant jungle-covered landscape and probably hidden in the trees to the others. But the strain of focusing Red's vision so far away slams into Keith, and he groans at the sudden pain in his temples.

“Keith?” Lance breathes over the comms, and sudden there's worry coursing through his blood. “Keith, watch out!”

He reacts just in time—or maybe Red reacts. He's not sure. The Galra ship shoots over Red's shoulder, and Keith aims a blast of fire right through the cockpit. It falls, smoking, to the ground. “Anyone see the other container?” Keith asks.

“What?” Shiro grunts, and Black dips dangerously low, leading a Galra ship low enough that the castle defenses take it out with deadly precision.

“Something else entered the atmosphere,” Keith says.

The ground shakes as the container slams down into the dirt, debris billowing up around it. Blue fires ice at it, an attempt to trap whatever monster is in it inside before it can wreak havoc. For a moment, Keith holds his breath, thinking it worked, but then the ice cracks and shatters, spraying water droplets as it hisses into liquid from a sudden heat.

The creature that bursts from the metal confines, shrapnel flying across Red's mindscape in a million pinpoints of attention, is nothing like the robeasts they've previously encountered. Past battles were all mechanical—deadly and destructive in their construction and not necessarily in their powers. But this is a new challenge.

Dark flames flicker into wings, and the bird cries out a shriek that scatters Keith's makeshift vision as it worms its way through his brain, digging and tearing with invisible claws. The form shifts and dances in fire around a mechanical heart that ticks and clicks with movement and animation as the phoenix takes to the sky.

Keith feels panic grate on the edge of his nerves, but Red grounds him, makes him focus on here and now rather than the past he so easily finds himself trapped in. With a loud growl to drown out another caw of the bird, Keith grunts, “It's a druid!”

“How do we beat it?” Pidge's words are bordering on frantic, and their breaths are coming short. Keith must not be the only one affected by the crow-like beast's voice.

“The heart—it's gotta be the heart, right?” Hunk says, and chucks a rocky spear at the bird as his spirals into the sky, but misses by a long shot and instead impales a Galran ship.

“No—Druids are too smart for that,” Keith huffs. “Whatever else landed—that's probably what's in control of it.”

“Sure you weren't just seeing things, Keith?” Shiro asks, and then immediately makes an apologetic noise. “Sorry, I didn't mean—”

“Keith is right,” Allura's voice sudden flickers to life over the comms. “Another transport vessel passed through the atmosphere. We're sensing traces of its power source.”

“Shiro, what do we do?” asks Hunk, as the lions retreat closer to the castle to regroup while the phoenix makes ominous circles in front of the Galra fleet. It caws and screams, leaving dark trails of magic in the wake of its blazing tailfeathers.

Before Shiro can reply, Keith starts, “I'll go check out the other thing. I'm fastest. If it's nothing, I'll be back quicker than the rest of you.”

“Keith, no,” Lance breaks in. “We should form Voltron—we're stronger together.”

“Not while I'm holding you guys back,” Keith deadpans. “Either we need more work or we need a new Red paladin. Voltron is a weakness until either of those things happen.”

“Keith, we're not replacing you,” Pidge asserts.

“Pidge is right,” Shiro finally speaks. “But Keith is right too. We don't know what this can do, Voltron isn't at its strongest, and if there is something out there, we need to be aware of it. Keith, get back as quick as you can. Everyone else, lay low, and stay alert.”

“Right,” Keith accepts the order and turns Red to face in the opposite direction, but he pauses. “Hunk.”

Hunk was in the middle of summoning more rocks from the ground, but when Keith calls on him, he drops two by accident. “Whoa—what's up, Man?”

“Watch out for Lance for me. Blue isn't doing so well out here.”

Lance doesn't even protest, and that alone is enough to confirm what Keith says. Instead, he lets out a shaky breath over the comms. Hunk gives a grunt of approval, followed by, “You got it.”

“Be careful,” Lance whispers, and then Red is streaking across the sky, until her paws skim treetops at the start of the jungle.

Keith strains to keep his senses on Lance as Red flies away, but as an ache starts in his temples from the strain of his bond with Red and her ability to compensate for his lack of vision, Keith is forced to focus on what's in front of him. Instead, he purrs along to the hum of Lance in his veins—the mating bond is a constant call: _come back to me_.

He reaches Red's vision as far forward as he dares to try and get an idea of what's ahead of him, but despite the fact his sight is actually better than before he was blind when he's flying, he can't actually see through the trees. But then Keith hears the hiss of the bayard console open up, and his ears flick back against his head as Red shows him a premonition of the forest smoking, black clouds billowing from the trees.

“Red,” Keith growls, scowling. “We can't set the jungle on fire.”

Red slows just barely enough for Keith to acknowledge that she is blatantly going against his wishes to get in and get out as fast as possible. Her tail lashes, striking down a tree in its impatient destruction, and Red grumbles her disapproval at Keith's disobedience to her suggestion.

“No,” Keith insists, pushing at the controls with more force than usually necessary to get Red to move. She huffs at him, somewhere between a hiss and a snort, but complies, speeding up to the general area where Keith had noticed the object fall to and diving underneath the tree cover.

Keith has the distinct feeling that she's rolling her eyes at him.

“Yeah, okay, so maybe Lance has rubbed off on me a bit,” Keith snarks, and bites his lip as a fresh wave of anxiety washes over him because he can feel the mating bond stretch over the distance. It's so new—and they've only been in the castle, so this is the furthest apart they've been since. Keith tries to sooth comforting waves in Lance's direction, because he knows it will be affecting him too, but he's not sure how successful he is.

“Keith, how you doing?” Shiro pants over the comms suddenly, the first contact since he took off. There's a crashing noise in the background.

“So far nothing, but I just touched down. Holding out?”

“Well—shit, Pidge! Get Lance—we're alive,” Shiro grunts.

“Lance—is he okay?” Keith feels worry tighten his chest, and Red automatically compensates with a warm purr.

“We're—ugh— _fine_.” A vicious caw sounds over the communication, grating against Keith's ears even through the transmission. He can't imagine being physically there, and he tries again to work through the concern and rising panic in his rapid heartbeat to send Lance comforting emotions. “Hurry back.”

The comms shut off.

Red prowls through the trees. She's the smallest of the lions, but the jungle is still a tight squeeze—she knocks down trees and foliage in her wake regardless; none of the lions would fit—and it's not her element. Green would much rather be here, Red hums the information into Keith's bones: Green would love the vines and the cloying sweetness because the leaves and the flitting sunlight and the gentle call of sparse wildlife hidden in nature's alcoves... is home.

Green's home.

There's a coiling feeling in Keith's gut that screams at him that this was a mistake.

But something calls too him too. In the distance, he feels a thrum of power, of energy. It's the same calling from all those years ago, when the blue lion first drew him to the desert. It sings in his veins, and Red roars, calling back to it. She's giddy against his mind, fuzzing his vision with her distraction.

It may be Green's element, Green's home, but only Red remembers, she tells him, in a patchy story of what might be called her childhood. She's the second oldest—Black was first—and she watched the others be formed around her, siblings and soul sisters and soulmates. They sing the same song to the stars, call to the same cosmic dust, but only Red remembers the tune. Only she can follow it.

That must explain _why him_ , then. For years, Keith had wondered: why he was kicked from the Garrison when the sudden temper took over him. He was already antisocial, but the irritability was new, and Keith had blamed it on his Galra genes, thinking it was only more of the same evil returning to ruin his life, but no. It had been Red. Red choosing him, Red guiding him, Red turning his gaze to the desert and starlight while the sun rose on another bleak day until finally Shiro had returned and everything fell into place.

And suddenly he was filled with such a sense of _belonging_ that Keith couldn't breathe for a moment. The dreams—the patterns in the stars—the songs he'd never heard but found himself humming under his breath while he worked over maps—everything had been Red. She'd called to him from the beginning.

“You're such an asshole,” he says, as Red tries to dodge around a tree but fails and it tips over with a soft _thwump_ against the forest floor, but his voice chokes in a happy sob. “You made me prove myself to you when you already picked me.”

Red simply purrs halfheartedly at him. _Silly Kitten_ , she seems to hum, _It took you long enough_.

Keith almost purrs back, but a cackling over the comms before they shut down completely reminds him of the harsh gravity of the situation. He's taken too long being distracted by Red's future-sensing abilities. A fleeting thought dwells for a heartbeat on whether or not is was humans that changed it from _Red's_ to just _red string of fate_.

There's a high-pitched twill in the distance—a cry of the firebird as it battles with Keith's teammates. It sounds closer, and he wonders if it's the other paladins or the bird that are forcing the conflict towards him. Red pauses, and Keith's ears flick forward automatically as he strains Red's vision into _focus_.

Before him is a cluttered landscape of vegetation, a thick quietness of growth. Occasionally, light flits between the leaves—one of the planet's white star suns fighting to touch the forest floor—but even the toppled trees Red left in her wake don't do much to open up the canopy overhead. There's a buzzing in the air—perhaps insects, or maybe it's just Red thrumming with the excitement of the call of _home_.

But then Red goes absolutely still, crouched in silence. She throbs against Keith's mind, a quick warning. The buzzing grows louder—then crackles like the burst of electricity. Something flies forward, searing and dark in Keith's mindscape, and Red rolls to avoid it. The trees hit by the attack burst instantly into flame.

Keith lets out a hiss, and then the druid is floating closer, levitating as dark magic spindles out from its fingertips. Red hones in on something as she leaps away, dodging another shot: a large pendant hanging from the monster's neck.

A mechanical brain.

A clever trick. Distract with the fleet, send in the strength, and keep the mind a safe distance away. Except the Galra weren't expecting Keith's new awareness of his surroundings, as Red compensated for his blindness. How distastefully ironic.

Growling low, Keith lunges Red forward as the druid readies another blast. The dark fire singes past Red's shoulder, and Keith knows she's going to be bitching for weeks about the damage to the metal, but all he can think of in the moment is the flit of pain that's not his own, followed by an aggressive anger. Red raises her paw to swipe at the druid, mouth opened and ready to follow up with a blast of fire or laser.

And then the druid disappears.

Red almost goes sprawling in surprise.

Dammit, this was supposed to be easy. Rush in, get back to the others, win the day, cuddle with Lance. Good plan. Keith doesn't have time to deal with this hide-and-seek bullshit.

Then the crackle of electricity is back.

Far too close.

Keith's ears pin flat against his head, and he flings himself forward, whirling, as Red skids to a stop.

He searches, blindly, for the attacker. He can smell the singe of burning druid magic, can hear the faint hiss of breath as the enemy lurks somewhere in the cockpit, but Keith is one again plunged into ignorant _nothingness_. Red doesn't have the ability to give him sight, or see through her eyes, and this level of introspection is far beyond their capabilities.

“You,” says the druid mildly. “You were under my table, once.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spits, grasping for his bayard at his hip.

“What's the matter, pup?” it coos. “Lost in the dark? We heard about you, you know. Haggar would love to have you back. Would love to return the favor for the number the little paladin did on her.”

Keith does a bit of a double-take, but tries to lower himself into a confident stance as he summons his sword. “What?”

“Did you not know? Well, then, Haggar herself will have to show you. Oh, I'm sorry—a regrettable choice of words on my part, apparently. She'll be pleased to hear you aren't dead. You were her favorite plaything after all, though perhaps that's not entirely true. L—”

“Shut up!” Keith cries, dodging blindly forward around the pilot seat to stab at the druid.

The druid makes a _tsk_ sound, and the air buzzes again, and Keith stumbles, catching himself against the side of the cockpit. “Don't you know it's rude to interrupt your elders? We _raised_ you, fledgling. You owe us your allegiance.”

“I'm am not your toy or slave,” Keith snarls. If only he could get closer—get his claws around druid's neck. Maybe he'd take a moment to tear the druid mask away, grind his claws into the druid's eyes and revel in the unadulterated _revenge_ for a moment.

“Oh, but you will be. You were born ours, you have lived as ours, and you will _die ours_.”

As the druid speaks, Keith feels a chill run down his spine. More and more magic is being thrown into its words, and the voice begins to tear at his sanity, though nowhere nearly as practiced as Haggar's skilled poison tongue. Keith tries to drown out the pain, instead focusing only on the sound so he can position himself. He braces himself, as if expecting an impact, and then hisses, air sharp and ragged against his throat. “Not by your hands. Not by any other Galra. I don't belong to you.”

The electric sting to the air intensifies, and Keith tastes copper in the back of his throat. “Oh,” drawls the druid, and Keith raises his sword. “But you do, don't you? You know your place. You know where you belong. Where you fit in. It's not here, not with the humans. It's with _us_. We're _family_.”

“ _Never_ ,” Keith spits, and—

Red flashes him the hastiest of warnings, and then she ducks and rolls across the terrain, leveling trees in her wake. Both he and the druid go tumbling across the cockpit, and Keith finds himself braced against a limb that's not his, and he latches on, dragging his sword out from where his arm is trapped under his own weight to slash down.

The druid lets out a cry, sharp enough to ring in Keith's ears. Keith feels his shoulder blaze into pain, and the druid latches a hand onto the junction of his neck, just above his armor. A fleeting thought echoes: what did Pidge do to Haggar? He knew they'd recovered the armors and the lions, but—Keith grits his teeth against the flood of agony where claws dig into skin, leaving gashes and leaking dark magic into his blood.

Keith drags his hand on the druid down, tearing through the robes and flesh underneath, and shoves wildly up with his sword. Something clinks against the metal—it has to be the brain. He needs to get that; it must control the phoenix, right? If not, at least he'll rid the druid of the trinket before Keith tears out its throat.

He releases his hand to claw at the arm pinning him, but as soon as he lets go, there's a kick aimed at his gut and the air rushes out of Keith's lungs.

And then Red is stumbling forward, starting into a run, and Keith goes sprawling again.

He smells smoke.

He's lost his position in relation to both the druid and the cockpit, and Keith scrambles backwards until he hits the wall. He feels the edge of the console, so he must be somewhere on the side, about halfway into the room, but he has no idea what happened to the druid.

Until something grabs at his leg, sparking pain up his nerves even through the armor, and Keith brings his sword harshly down. It thuds against his own armor dully, and he vaguely registers the pressure of the impact, but his leg is otherwise numb now that the druid's hand is gone.

Electricity crackles.

Keith tries to draw himself up but can't find his feet underneath him.

Red makes a sharp turn, the druid yelps, high-pitched and inhuman, and then Keith feels the heat of dark fire as it falls towards him.

Instinctively, he raises his arms to protect himself, but Keith feels his bayard shift in his hand: the weight of it changes, and somehow the druid catches on it over the hilt, letting out a strangled noise. The impact forces Keith's hand down, and he feels his own blade slice shallowly along his waist. There's something at the end of his sword, now, instead of just the plain hilt—and the new angle drives whatever it is into the druid's flesh where he landed on top of Keith.

Electricity crackles once more and then dies out, accompanied by a choking, gurgling noise.

“Red,” Keith gasps, shoving his arm forward so that the druid's body crumples away. He gasps in air, panting from the strain and the vague sense of pain drumming through his nerves. Red thrums a hurried purr at Keith. She flashes him a hint of comfort, a small safety in assuring the druid is indeed dead.

Keith drags himself forward, fingers dragging in a warm liquid across the soaked druid robes until he feels the chain around the druid's neck. Something smells burnt—either Keith's clothes or skin or the druid's—he's not sure which. With a sharp tug, Keith palms the pendant in his free hand, and falls back.

Shoving up against the console, Keith pulls himself off the ground, limping as he feels his way across the cockpit and falls into the pilot seat. As he settles, feeling the odd warmth of Galra tech in one palm and his retracted bayard in the other, Red reconnects his vision to the outside world, and he watches the havoc this battle has caused on the landscape in silent shock.

Red is at the edge of the tree line. She must have run out of the forest while Keith was struggling with the druid. Flames lick the sky.

Fuck.

The druid magic.

Red wasn't sending him a plan earlier—she was sending him a vision.

But then Keith hears the telltale hiss of the bayard console again, and his brow furrows. “I... don't understand,” he manages, still reeling. His leg throbs painfully, and he can feel the slickness of blood on his shoulder, trailing from his neck and down his chest and back, underneath the armor.

Red is insistent on his mind, and Keith finally relents, tightening his grip on his bayard and tentatively reaching out until he finds the console and slots the weapon in. Red hums with energy, rejuvenating Keith marginally, but he feels the weight of his limbs drag as he loops the chain over his wrist so his hands are free to take the controls.

Red roars, and the fire dances. This is her element. Keith feels the strain on her emotions as she mourns the forest, the loss of it for her sister, but as she watches the blaze, her grief slowly turns to excitement.

Before Keith can process what's happening, Red soars up into the air with a leap, paws skimming against the heat of the flames, and as they cling to the metal, the smoke follows the air in her wake in tendrils.

But then Keith realizes he's not just hallucinating that idea. It's more than a crazy concept strung together by his worn mind: Red is _controlling_ the smoke. It swirls in the air, shifts and forms into vague shapes, until the snarling shape of a panther appears, the body fuzzing into existence as if an afterthought.

Some sort of understanding passes through Red, but it reaches for over Keith's head, and it's watching everything from two mental steps behind, so he lets his lion take over.

Red starts into action, zipping forward, skimming the burning treetops to collect more smoke and add to the lithe body running across the sky alongside her. About halfway across the forest, the wildfire has yet to spread, but Keith only processes his thought for a moment because suddenly his comms stutter to life.

“Keith!” Pidge cries. “Ke—holy _fuck_. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Keith manages, slumping against the back of the pilot seat as Red autopilots back to the rest of the battle. “Just—had an issue.” He vaguely gestures behind him, even though he knows that the comms don't show much past the pilot seat. “I got this.” He holds up his wrist, the feeling the chain sway against his skin as the pendant hangs.

“Is that—Galran?” Pidge asks.

“I think...” Keith takes a deep breath and forces his brain to form coherent sentences, but he'd feels like he'd much rather take a nap right about now. “Think the druid was controlling it with this.”

Shiro's voice suddenly crackles to life over the comms. “There was a druid?”

“Yeah,” Keith hums, vaguely conscious.

“Keith, Buddy?” Hunk's voice. Distant. “You don't look so good.”

“'M'fine,” Keith huffs half-heartedly. Red sends him a shot of energy, and he rouses a bit, feeding off her excitement as they return to the battle. “Where's Lance?”

“Back—uh—at the castle,” Pidge says. Their explanation is interrupted as they dodge out of the way of the phoenix as it dives towards Green.

Red roars, and the smoke trailing behind rolls forward, paws beating through the air even as they shift in and out of existence.

“What is that?” Hunk squeaks. “Keith?”

“Lance could feel when you got hurt; he kind of had a breakdown,” Shiro finished Pidge's explanation, but then sucks in a sharp breath when he must notice the panther. “What's going on?”

“Dunno,” Keith says. “Red did a thing.”

“Keith, you should get back to the castle,” Pidge says, pulling Green back from the fray to nudge at Red's shoulder. “You're too out of it to fight. The bird went a little haywire earlier, and the fleet started retreating, probably when you took care of the druid, so we should be able to take it from here.”

Red hums with protest, and nuzzles against Green. There must be some sort of communication that, once again, Keith misses, but Pidge sucks in air, and mutters something to their lion.

“Pidge is right,” Shiro says. “Keith it looks like you lost a lot of blood. Get to a pod. Now. That's an order.”

“I—” Keith starts, but then Red, even in all of her buzzing excitement, gives one final roar and turns from the battle. As she flies back towards the castle, dodging the occasional laser from the defenses aimed at Galran ships, Keith keeps his focus on the smoke-figure. It latches on with sharp teeth into the phoenix's wing, a tangle of fire and smoke, and then the panther breaks apart.

For a moment, Keith almost reaches out to turn Red around, but she grumbles at him.

The smoke circles around—once, twice—and then dives, encompassing the phoenix completely. There's a wild, piercing cry, and then the mechanical heart drops from the air, a useless scrap of metal and wires.

Keith's vision of the battlefield fuzzes out as Red commands his focus on the castle, now looming before them as she lands. Keith heaves himself out of the pilot seat once she's in the hangar. He doesn't bother to grab his bayard, and nearly trips over the body of the druid if not for Red's last-second warning that he barely reacted to. He stumbles from the cockpit, feeling as if the world he can't even see is still spinning around him.

There's a breath of sound, pounding footsteps, and then someone is holding him in a bruising grip. Lance is sobbing his name as they both fall to their knees, not willing to attempt to hold each other up. Keith is too weak, and Lance is too broken—the proximity causes his panic to stab into Keith over their bond.

There aren't words, only the mutter of names on each other's lips, and then Lance is burrowing his face in Keith's neck, lapping wildly at the trickle of blood still oozing from the wounds at the base of his neck.

Lance gasps, pulling back with a shudder that shakes them both. “I don't—”

“Just drink,” Keith says, and is surprised at the steadiness in his own voice. This is his mate. This is Lance. He's promised himself to this boy, bound himself, tied their souls together. Lance's lips meet his skin once again, drawing blood from his body and comfort from their bond. Keith loves him, with everything he has. He'd give Lance everything he has if he could.

He nearly does.

Keith slumps entirely against Lance as he blacks out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: panic attack (though not explicit), a healthy dose of a exposition, blood, violence/injury,


	9. Night Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God. I am so sorry.
> 
> (Read: This is the longest chapter of this fic, sitting at approximately 24.5k words, and I am Not Okay)

“ _If it prove so, then loving goes by haps, some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”_

\- William Shakespeare, _Much Ado About Nothing_

 

Keith wakes to the distant sounds of yelling, and then with a hiss of Altean tech, everything sharpens into clarity.

“This isn't healthy! Keith almost died!”

Keith's ears pin back against his head automatically at the aggressive tone, all fury.

“You think I don't know that, Allura? _I'm_ the one who's bonded with him. I _felt him get hurt_.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it, Lance. Keith almost died _because of you_.”

Lance lets out a choked noise, and Keith feels distress pierce through his body like arrows. He reaches blindly for his mate's voice, wanting comfort, wanting to give comfort. Lance needs him—Lance needs support—Lance—

“Shh, I've got you,” Shiro breathes against Keith's hair as he stumbles out of the healing pod. He caught in strong arms, and as Shiro holds him to his chest, Keith sinks into the embrace, feeling drained.

Lance's tone comes out in a low, deadly, growl. “If there is anyone I should be apologizing to for that, it's Keith, not you.”

“This isn't just about you, Lance! And it's not about Keith, either—it's about the _team_. We almost lost a paladin today and—”

“The team?” Lance echoes, sounding incredulous as his voice pitches up in disbelief. “The _team_? If this is about the team, then how come you're the only one who has a problem with me and Keith being together? You were fine after we were rescued, but as soon as we mated—” Someone draws in a sharp intake of breath. “Ah! See, you can't even hear the word. Get over it, Allura, we're _mates_. _Galran mates_.”

“Th-that's not—” Allura starts, but Shiro clears his throat.

“Um, Allura? Lance?” Shiro shifts Keith in his arms, balancing his weight a little better. The other two in the room must finally notice what's occurred while they were arguing—that Keith's awake now.

“Keith!” Lance cries, and Keith hears the scuffling of shoes against the floor. Lance let's out a huff, and then there's a dull thud of impact. “Shit! What the fuck, Allura? Let me go!”

Allura's voice is dripping with forced calm, laced with underlying threats. “I think you should walk away, Lance. You know he's okay, now. Perhaps you two need a break.”

Keith snarls before he can stop it, startling Shiro into tightening his grip. He doesn't make any other move beyond that, however, and Shiro loosens the circle of his arms, running his human hand over Keith's shoulder soothingly.

“Princess—” Shiro begins to say, his tone placating. Keith presumes he wants to get things back under control, but Lance breaks in.

“You know what I think, Allura? I think you can't look past your prejudice long enough to be okay with Keith being a member of the team, and you think that we mated just to rub it in your face. Well, here's the truth: these are still _our lives_ , even though you've taken most of that away from us when you made us paladins, so the least you can do it let us choose how to _love_. And I am in love with Keith and you can be a dick all you want about it but nothing you say will change that. Now. Let. Me. Go.”

Allura draws in a shaky breath, and Keith hears her footsteps stutter against the floor. “Lance—is that—is that what you think?”

But Lance ignores her. Keith can feel the intent in his own bones, as Lance scoops him out of Shiro's arms, and Keith's weight transfers to the blue paladin's shoulders. He's draped over Lance, automatically nosing his way into the crook of Lance's neck and breathing deep. This is where he belongs: this is Lance, is home, is love.

“Can...” Keith starts, pressing closer against Lance's skin.

“Always,” Lance breathes against his hair, air tickling the base of Keith's ears. “Always. I'm yours. Keith. Keith, I'm so—so sorry. I didn't...” Lance trails off, body tensing slightly, as Keith bites down, pricking through Lance's skin. After a moment, Lance relaxes with a soft sigh.

“Keith,” Allura warns. She's still across the room, but Keith can hear the tension in her voice. Just barely, when he focuses around the smell of Lance, he can scent her uncertainty, cloying and heavy. His surroundings hardly register, though, because now that he's sharing Lance's blood, he can feel energy trickle through him, feel their bond pull and tighten between them. Keith no longer feels like dead weight in Lance's arms.

“Princess, perhaps this is something we should allow them to work out?” Shiro offers.

“But I...”

“Keith,” Lance whispers, drawing him closer. “Keith, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just so worried, and I felt you get hurt and I couldn't deal and...”

Keith pauses in his drinking to nuzzle against Lance's neck affectionately. “It's okay, Lance. I know.” He presses a kiss to the puncture wound, smearing blood, before he licks it from his lips and laps at the marks until they stop bleeding. “It's okay. We're safe. I'm safe.”

“I almost—” Lance chokes on the words, and they turn to a sob. “Keith.”

Keith wraps himself more tightly around Lance, and Lance drops his head to Keith's shoulder. He feels the wetness of Lance's tears through the suit he's wearing, and soothes his hands over his lover's back in soft petting motions. “It's okay,” he breathes, and purrs comfort at Lance, trying to share the emotion over their bond. “We're figuring this out as we go. We'll work on it all.”

“I can't—Keith, I have to...” Lance's voice hiccups.

“Lance?” Keith continues to smooth his fingers over Lance's body, careful of letting his claws do anything more than ghost touches over skin. He runs his hand over the nape of Lance's neck, brushing just under where his hair stops, and the texture changes under his claws. Warm? Cool? Keith isn't sure—it's not natural, and... “What's this?”

“What's what?” Shiro asks, curiously. His voice is nearby, so Keith presumes he's been watching them, just in case, and while protectiveness alights in his gut, he's also thankful for the gentle concern.

“Th-this is my fault,” Lance sobs against Keith's neck. He pulls back, and tries to escape Keith's arms, but finds himself caught in a tightening grip, so he stills. He could get out, if he really wanted, especially when Keith is still weak, but Lance instead goes back in, wrapping his arms more firmly around Keith, grounding himself. “I sh-should have said something.”

“Lance,” Allura's voice is wary, still low and upset. “What do you mean?”

Lance's head shifts, and if Keith had to guess, he's probably glaring at Allura for the interruption, but then he takes in a deep breath. Keith purrs, rumbling the noise between both of their bodies, and Lance continues. “While w-we were in the cells, the Galra did something... to me. I-I don't know what it was, but they're probably t-tracking me.”

Keith reaches up, sliding his hand along Lance's back until his fingers brush over the implant. He hums thoughtfully, and taps a claw against the odd piece. Lance doesn't react, but Keith feels an unsettling chill run through his veins. “You never... told me?”

“I'm sorry,” Lance cries, sounding desperate. “I—I didn't want to worry you—you're—you're... fragile.” His posture slumps, and his grip on Keith tightens, fingers digging into his skin through the suit. “Shit—I don't... that's not what I mean—I... Keith, I'm sorry. I didn't—they _broke you_ , and I couldn't bear to be the one to make you fall apart again just because I couldn't deal with some stupid piece of metal or something, but I can't fix this on my own.”

For a moment, anger flares through Keith, but he reins it in, releasing only a soft snort. “Lance, you can trust us. You can trust me.”

“I know,” Lance breathes. “I know. But sometimes I feel like I need to learn to trust myself first.”

“Lance, we're here for you,” Shiro assures, and Keith feels his arm brush past his shoulder as he makes some gesture of comfort to Lance.

Somewhere from across the room, there's a soft sigh: weary, worried, and worn. “I suppose you are right, Shiro. Keith, Lance, I am sorry,” Allura says softly. Her voice hesitates for a moment, and cracks slightly on the next word. “I—Lance is right as well. I grew up hearing only horror stories of Galran mates, how they only brought death and bloodshed and pain, and it is hard for me to adjust. I know this is no excuse, but... I worry. You two must be careful.”

“If anyone has seen the pain brought on by abusing mating bonds...” Keith says mildly, words hitting against Lance's shoulder. “I assure, you, Allura, that I know the possible consequences of what I was getting into.”

“What _we're_ getting into?” Lance asks, voice still a little raw from crying. He nudges his head up, nosing against Keith's ear, breathing in his scent.

“And when are you going to tell him?” Allura fires back.

Keith stiffens. Lance catches it immediately, and freezes against him in return. “What?”

“Keith, I think it's your turn to fess up,” Shiro hums.

“Did Allura tell you, or did you already know?” he asks Shiro. He doesn't know why it matters—perhaps it's just a way of delaying the inevitable crash that will be confessing the gravity of what Keith has done.

“A bit of both,” Shiro admits, and he moves his hand from Lance to Keith's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze before Keith hears his footsteps move away. “We'll be... outside. Take care of each other.”

“Lance, I... I'm sorry,” Allura adds, even as her voice fades as she leaves the room. “I never meant... I never meant to force this on you. Any of you. You've always had a choice. You can always walk away.”

“I know,” Lance breathes, so quiet that Keith has no idea if Allura can hear him, or if he's even talking to the princess at all. “I know, and I wouldn't have chosen any differently.”

“Lance,” Keith gasps out, and suddenly his body betrays him, and they're both sinking to the floor. Lance pulls Keith into his lap, arms still wrapped around him, and Keith clutches at his waist and shoulder. “I'm sorry. I—I never lied to you, but—there's more... There's things I should have told you.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Lance says, but there's a mild undertone to his voice that gives it a wary edge. Keith feels the anxiety run through him, an electric shock to his bones from the mating bond. “I'll wait for you. You can tell me when you're ready. Hell, I kept secret about this... thing for a while now. Too long.”

“I—we'll have Pidge check it out soon, but I have...” Keith rests his head against Lance's shoulder. “I need to find the words.”

“You need sleep and food, too. I can see Pidge on my own.”

“I'll go with you. Now shut up, I'm thinking.”

Lance presses a kiss to Keith's forehead in response. The whiplash of emotions still has Keith reeling a little, and it takes him a moment to draw it all in, to process. Lance is still concerned—he can feel the song stutter in his blood—but it's tempered now, with Keith breathing against his neck and contained in his arms. The tension is eased, if for a moment.

Deep breath. He can do this. “For Galra, mating is... far more intimate than other species.”

“You're going to have to elaborate on that one, Babe, because I'm not sure how more intimate interspecies relationships can get considering we've already had sex.”

“Can you not,” Keith gripes, feeling his cheeks heat. “You're shameless. I'm trying to be serious.”

“I am too!” Lance protests, but tightens his hold on Keith and as Keith drapes an arm over Lance's shoulder, he can feel the rapid _pit-pat_ of his heart against his ribcage. He knows Lance. This is a defense mechanism, a coping method to deal with his nerves and insecurities. Keith purrs, trying to calm him, and Lance breathes out a soft, “Thank you.”

Keith swallows, choking for a second on the purr as it cuts off with a strangled noise. “I—” Just fucking say it. “Galra mate for life.”

Lance is silent for a moment, and Keith has to push down the fear that he's ruined everything far away, else he let it flood their bond. “...What?”

“Galra... Mate for life,” Keith repeats, and then shifts awkwardly in Lance's arms. “I'm yours, Lance. Forever. I'll never... Even if you leave me, I'll never love someone else the way I love you. I'll never be close with someone else in the same way. I'm—it's fine. I accept it. But you're—you're not... like me. Not Galra. You don't have that same commitment. But I am bound to you, for as long as you'll have me.”

“Keith,” Lance breathes, and he sounds so, so broken, that it shatters against Keith's heart. He starts to pull away, if at least to give Lance a chance to process, but Lance echoes Keith's earlier actions and tightens his grip, growling, “Oh, Keith, you impulsive ass, why are you like this.”

“I—” Keith starts, but then Lance's lips are on his, insistent and searing.

“I love you,” Lance gasps between kisses. “I love you. I am yours. You're mine, and I love it. I'm here. I love you.”

Keith doesn't realize he's crying until Lance is kissing the tears away. “Mine, mine, mine,” Lance hums. “And I, yours.”

“Thank you,” Keith breathes, running his hands up Lance's body until he finds his head and crashes their lips together again. Their teeth connect painfully, but all Keith can process is the relief that floods his body, pouring in waves over their bond. Lance's shoulders relax under Keith's hands, as he sighs against his lips.

“I'm sorry,” Lance says, but then, with a jolt, Keith pulls away because Lance didn't actually _say_ anything.

For a moment, they both seem to freeze in mild shock. Keith furrows his brow, focuses on trying to send a message back.

 _We did it_.

Lance's voice is an awed whisper when he actually does speak, “Oh, fuck yeah. Now I can send you memes while we kiss.”

“I hate you.”

_You love me._

_I do_.

Lance nuzzles against Keith and nips at the base of one of his ears, and somehow it triggers the beginnings of a purr, rumbling through Keith's entire body.

 _You're mine,_ Lance's intent ghosts over Keith's mind. _You're mine, and I'm staying with you. You don't need anyone else. You have me. I'm staying, and I'm yours, and I love you, and you're mine_.

 _I'm yours_ , Keith echoes back.

“Food?” Lance offers suddenly.

“Food,” Keith agrees. “And then Pidge. And then nap.”

“Food, Pidge, nap,” Lance confirms.

 

 

 

“Well, it's not a tracking device,” Pidge hums thoughtfully. Keith hears Lance hiss in pain, presumably when the wires taped to his skin are pulled off.

“You demon, be careful!” Lance growls.

Pidge snorts. “You're fine.”

“I'm mostly sure you just ripped some of my skin off,” Lance retorts, indignant.

“ _You're fine_ ,” Pidge insists. There's a shuffling noise as Pidge fidgets with their equipment. “While you're here—Keith, I'd like to try something?”

“Is it gonna take longer than fifteen minutes?” Keith asks, yawning. “'Cause I'm 'bout ready to crash.”

“It'll be quick,” Pidge assures, and Keith leans his head on Lance's shoulder while he listens to Pidge tap furiously at their laptop. A distant thought floats through his mind: how impressive it is that Pidge has managed to keep their laptop up and running even though it's probably far outdated even on earth now. But then Keith realizes that this isn't _his_ thought—because he hasn't kept up much with earth technology even when he was still on the blue planet—it's Lance, absently sending Keith ideas over their mental bond.

Keith huffs, swatting mildly at Lance. “Something tells me this is gonna get annoying real quick.”

“What?” Lance asks, trying to grab Keith's flailing hand in an attempt to lace their fingers together.

Keith hums a disgruntled sigh, and lets Lance hold his hand. “Your stray thoughts are leaking.”

Lance blows a raspberry at him. “'Leaking' sounds gross.”

“It's accurate,” Keith protests, and then realizes Pidge has stopped typing.

“Wait—you're telling me you guys have _telepathy_ now?” they squeak. “That's fucking cool! How do I get the hookup with this shit?”

“Find yourself a hot mess Galra babe with a shit-ton of baggage,” Lance quips, leaning over and nuzzling against Keith's temple before nipping at his ear.

“Gross,” Pidge comments, and goes back to tapping away. “Never mind, not actually that interested.”

“Lance, we're here because of you, remember? I'm not the only one who hides shit.”

“Hey, hey,” Lance says defensively. “We're _staying_ because of you, though.”

Keith hums disapproval, and instead of responding with his voice, tightens his grip on Lance's hand and speaks directly to his mate's mind. _The attack wasn't your fault_.

_I know. That doesn't explain what this is, though..._

_I trust Pidge. If they say it's harmless, then it probably is._

Lance brushes his thumb over Keith's knuckles. Keith purrs at him, trying to dispel some of the melancholy. _Have you seen something like this before?_

_'Seen.'_

_Sorry. You know what I mean._

_Maybe. It feels a lot like Shiro's arm, just a lot smaller, but I've never... Not along the spine. It's been limbs, before, or organs. They might have been testing something on you and it failed._

“I hope so,” Lance says softly.

“What?” Pidge asks.

“Nothing,” Lance replies, and Pidge huffs.

“We'll be fine,” Keith tells Lance, lifting his hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to his skin. “We'll deal if it's a tracking device or whatever else. We'll get through it.”

“I couldn't find anything,” Pidge argues instantly, quick to fill in the gaps in the conversation caused by Lance and Keith's silent communication. “The best guess I have is it's some sort of injection, but you seem fine. If you're really worried, have Coran run you through the healing pod again, but after we rescued you it turned out a green light.”

“Injection?” Lance echoes, sounding spooked. “Fuck no, that's not cool.”

“Well, no, it's not,” Pidge agrees. “But I think you would have seen the effects sooner. The healing pod would have picked something up.”

“Pidge is right,” Keith says, trying to get a grip on the growing unease in his gut. With the way he and Lance are sharing thoughts so freely right now, it will only turn into a feedback loop that spirals downwards, and Keith wants to avoid that at all possible costs. He wants to go to bed without tears lulling him to sleep, for once. “It was probably a failure—or they meant to build on it... a-and didn't get a chance to.”

“I suppose,” Lance allows.

“Anyway,” Pidge cuts in suddenly, and Keith hears them shuffling things around. “Keith. So Lance made a comment about this whole screaming thing, and I really didn't need the details of the occasion.” Keith elbows Lance in the side, hard, and the other wheezes. “But I found some old Altean records on it and did a little digging, and I think I might have come up with something.”

“Define 'something,'” Keith says, squeezing Lance's hand, still in his, painfully tightly. Lance lets out a hiss of pain, but Keith can tell from the tension in his muscles that he's trying very hard to keep it together. Because pulling away means defeat, and Lance is nothing if not competitive.

“I made a thing,” Pidge announces. “But I think I'll need a recording of your scream. Unless you wanna lose your voice to keep it up.”

“I'm... not sure if I can do it on purpose,” Keith says, and feels himself flush because all past occasions of using this particular ability have occurred in rather steamy situations.

“Well I'm not sitting around while Lance blows you, so you better figure it out, Batboy.”

“How much did you tell them?” Keith squawks at his boyfriend.

Over their bond, Keith gets the distinct feeling that Lance is unashamed and unapologetic and very much enjoying Keith being as flustered as he is. Lance drops his hand, and sets it in Keith's hair, scratching in an attempt to soothe him. “Hold up, Pidge. I have an idea. On my cue.”

“I don't like this,” Keith grumbles.

“Oh, come on,” Lance purrs, and the hand working at the base of his ears pauses. “Just be a good boy.”

It's casual—so casual and from any other's lips, Keith would have ignored it, passed it off as a slip of the tongue or false praise. But Lance, fucking Lance, knows exactly how to get to him, and Keith crosses his arms over his chest stubbornly even as heat pools in his gut.

“Gonna have to try hard—”

Lance's hand connects with Keith's ass, hard.

And—God fucking dammit—it works.

Keith lets out a yelp that reverberates around the room, and whirls, rubbing at the sore spot. He ignores the way he can feel Lance's arousal slipping over their tether, and tries to temper it down, because dammit, Keith just wants a _nap_. Can't Lance just let him have nice things for once. Things that don't involve lube.

“Nice,” Pidge comments, even as Keith growls at the other two paladins in the room. He feels betrayed—and okay, maybe some of Lance's dramatics are rubbing off on him.

 _I think more than my personality is rubbing on you, if you know what I mean_ , Lance sends over their bond, and Keith hisses in response.

“Stop that,” Pidge grumbles, and their voice is much closer now. “Here I—fuck.”

“What?” Lance asks. “Something wrong?”

“Keith, bend down. I'm too short to see what I'm doing.”

Lance barks out a laugh while Keith complies. He feels Pidge fiddle with his ears, and resists the urge to pull away with a wince. Already he feels his face scrunch up with distaste at the manhandling, but he forces himself to stay still while Pidge fits something over and around the base of his ears.

“Oh my God, you're adorable,” Lance says, voice barely containing a laugh, as Pidge steps away.

“What?” Keith straightens.

“You have little antennae. Pidge, I didn't think you could do it, but somehow you've managed to make Keith cuter.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith and Pidge both say at the same time.

“Jinx, you owe me a coke,” Pidge quips.

“Pidge, I haven't even seen soda in like four years,” Keith quips, as Pidge taps at their laptop. “I ha... Ha... What.”

It starts out as a gentle hum: the world shifts and stutters into a vague view. It's not unlike the way Red passes her sight onto Keith, but this... This is a distinct knowledge of proximity, and as Pidge fiddles with the settings on their tech, everything starts to waver into clarity. No color, no light, but forms and outlines ringing in Keith's ears that intensifies the sharper everything becomes.

He “sees” Pidge, tinkering at their table, and they lift their head for a moment to watch Keith's response. He's staring in open-mouthed shock, he knows, blinking and expecting everything to go back to dark nothingness when he does, except that doesn't happen. It's everything at once, regardless of whether his eyes are open, and it's overwhelming and too hard to process and—Lance.

He puts every fiber of his being into focusing on ignoring the buzz of the rest of the hangar until all he knows is Lance.

Keith turns, facing him full on, without hesitation, and Lance blinks at him, brow furrowed in puzzled observation. Then his eyes widen, and the realization hits Keith in the gut with the flood of emotion.

“You—” Lance starts, and his voice is muffled by the tech, as if they're underwater, but Keith can still hear him, and can see him and oh God why is he not touching Lance right now.

So in the next heartbeat, Keith is sweeping Lance into his arms like he's the entire world—and for all Keith cares, Lance is. He drowns out the rest, feeling tears fall unchecked down his cheeks while he clutches at Lance, runs his hands over his face and memorizes the shape through both touch and this makeshift sight.

It's enough. It's enough. This is enough—Lance, Lance, Lance. The curve of his brow, and the pout of his lips, and the soft upturn of his nose. The sharpness of his cheekbones, wet underneath Keith's fingers as he traces over every bit of skin. The curl of his hair, just reaching past his ears; the cut of his jaw, beautiful as Keith remembers, even though the last time he saw it was in the cell, marred by blood and bruises; and the slant of his wild grin, until Keith is kissing him without second thought, drowning in the love and absolute giddiness of it all.

He can see.

He's not weak.

He's not useless anymore.

He feels just the slightest bit more like he's actually the Red Paladin of Voltron again.

And Lance holds him as he cries and laughs and Keith can see the way Lance's eyelids flutter closed when they kiss, the way all the tension melts from his shoulders when he has Keith in his arms.

And then suddenly, they break apart, and Keith is halfway across the room, lifting Pidge off their feet in a crushing hug that rivals Hunk's. “Thank you thank you thank you,” he breathes, laughing as Pidge struggles.

“Whew,” they say, when Keith finally puts them down. “I'm glad that worked. It would have been really anticlimactic if nothing happened after all that.”

“This is amazing, Pidge—you're amazing, you little genius, you.”

“I try,” Pidge says casually, but they're grinning. “I'm gonna need it back for a bit, though. I need to fit the amplifier onto the headband, otherwise it only works when I have my laptop with me.”

“Right,” Keith says, and reaches up to finger the metal headband.

“Let me,” says Pidge, and Keith bends down to let them mess with it.

He's plunged into nothingness again, and it slams into him, wrenching a soft gasp from his chest, but then Lance is at his side again, guiding. “Thanks, Pidge,” Lance adds, wrapping an arm around Keith's waist.

“I'll adjust the shape too, so it fits under your helmet,” Pidge comments, seemingly shrugging off Lance's gratefulness.

“Damn,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Bat-cat-bug Keith is cuter than bat-cat Keith. You sure you can't keep it like this?”

“Laaaance,” Keith whines.

“Right, right,” Lance hums good-naturedly, like he's God's gift to the world. “You wanted to go take a nap, right?”

“Are you shitting me? Like I'm gonna be able to sleep after that.”

“So does that imply you'd be interested in doing other things?”

Keith elbows Lance again, though not as hard as earlier. “Does your libido have no end?”

Lance makes a contemplative noise. “Not with you, Babe.” His hand snakes lower on Keith's hip to pinch the still-sore spot on his ass, and Keith lets out a soft yelp.

“Okay, get out,” Pidge huffs. “You two are gross.”

“You love us,” Lance quips.

“I already have to deal with the fact that I'm using the equivalent of one of Keith's moans for science,” Pidge retorts, snorting. “If I didn't love you, you'd be lost without me.”

“Oh, no,” replies Lance casually. “He moans, too. He sounds absolutely—”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith growls, and Pidge makes a gagging noise. “You shut your dirty exhibitionist mouth. Or I'll—”

“You'll what, Babe? You're adorable. Look at you, all fluffy and—”

_Next time, I'm wrecking your ass._

Keith hears Lance's jaw shut with a click. He both feels and hears the air shudder in Lance's chest, where it's pressed against Keith's shoulder.

“That a promise?” Lance asks in a whisper.

“You bet,” Keith growls.

“ _Get out_ ,” Pidge snarls, and this time, Lance tugs Keith away, _thank yous_ echoed over their shoulders at the green paladin.

 

 

 

Keith holds his breath, socked feet as silent as he can manage against the castle floor. He hums with anxious energy, though the song of his nerves is drowned by the buzz of the world around him. The first nearby surfaces are the brightest in his vision—not quite sight, but a thrumming proximity. It's the brush of air, as the molecules vibrate under this synthetic call, like the prickling of hair on the nape of one's neck under the sensation of being watched.

In the distance, Keith can barely distinguish voices from objects. The soundwaves blur and interfere the more times they bounce against nearby obstacles, and while he as a vague sense of movement beyond just the hallway he's currently prowling down, it's about as useful as white noise: better to drown out than focus on. It's something Keith has spent all morning practicing with Pidge in the green lion's hangar, trying to sift through the new sight so it's less like a flash of sound and more directed, pinpointed into clarity. More than once, Keith had to take a break to fend off the growing headache, but he's determined that he has this whole echolocation thing down now.

It was during one of said downtimes that, while chatting absently with Pidge, he mentioned Red's incoherent memories. Pidge had let out a soft gasp, followed by an adamant request to take them to see the location, if Keith could find it again.

And so, after a quick discussion with Shiro, Pidge and Keith had convinced him it was a necessary trip not only for Green but also to test Keith's sight. Which led Keith to now: tracking down the blood that calls him home, home, home, pausing at the door of the kitchen to make sure Lance's back is turned, and pouncing.

Lance lets out an extremely high-pitched yelp, flailing wildly as Keith drapes his arms over his boyfriend's shoulders, tugging Lance backwards. They threaten to go tumbling harshly to the ground when Keith's socks slip precariously on the floor, but he manages to throw his weight to the side and he and Lance bump into the counter instead.

Hunk, from across the island, laughs heartily.

“Jesus fuck,” Lance breathes, chest heaving so that his body brushes against Keith's, warm under his fingertips. “You're dangerous when you have free reign.”

Keith smirks at him as he twists so they're face-to-face. Automatically, Lance's hands settle at Keith's hips, toying with the fabric of his shirt.

“I'm going to get you a bell,” Lance announces.

“Please don't tell me you're into that,” Keith huffs, pulling away from Lance and dancing around the counter to avoid the chasing fingers. The ghost touch lingers on Keith's waist, though, warmed through comfort and the harmony of mates.

“Well...” Lance hums.

“He's not,” Hunk says, and Keith's ears flick towards him of their own startled accord. It was hard balancing the input from both his echolocation adaption, scent, and hearing (at least, what persisted after the dull drum that allowed Keith to see), and somehow he'd managed to drown out the fact Hunk was still there.

“Thank God,” Keith says absently, and tunes his focus into analyzing the mess on the counter. He'd ignored it initially as background information, too focused on sneaking up on Lance, but now he acknowledges the various bowls and items strewn about. “What are you doing?”

“Ah,” Lance says, and the sound draws from his throat: contemplative, sage, dangerous. Unabashed, he doesn't hesitate to add: “We're making lube.”

“What,” Keith deadpans, because he's still processing, and then squawks, “What?”

Hunk gives a halfhearted shrug, unapologetic. “Lance isn't wrong. Though I was originally trying out a recipe for some sort of vitamin shake.”

“Hey, hey, you promised me—”

“I know, I know,” Hunk soothes, hands up in a surrendering gesture. “But if this batch smells like old bananas, it's your fault for interrupting me.”

Lance snorts. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Keith takes a moment to let his brain catch up. “Waitwaitwait, _this batch_?” He pins Lance with an incredulous gaze. “You have no shame.”

“I thought we determined that fact like two years ago,” Lance hums, absently picking up one of the many ingredients on the table and inspecting the packaging. It's probably all in Altean, but he runs his gaze over it, anyway.

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, and rubs his hands over his face, feeling the heat of his own cheeks in his palms.

“I said you probably didn't wanna know where it came from,” Lance hums.

“I thought—I thought you'd bartered it off some weird planet or _something_ , I dunno—this—this is—” Keith breaks off with a whine. “I don't know what this is. It's weird. That's what.”

Hunk chuckles from where he's mixing various things into a bowl. “Look, if it's any consolation, he didn't ask for it originally for you.”

“So the fact he asked for someone else is supposed to make me feel better?” Keith snaps, though it's without genuine malice. He's too embarrassed for that.

Hunk makes a spluttering noise, and it breaks into a laugh. “Sorry—I didn't mean...” but then he's laughing still, probably at the betrayed expression Keith knows he's making, because he adopted that mannerism from Lance.

“It was for me,” Lance says with a shrug. “Space is lonely when you don't have an alien boyfriend to have sex with all the time.”

“All the time is relative,” Keith grumps. “We have other things to do. Speaking of, suit up. We're going out with Pidge.”

Lance leans away from the counter, and then stretches his hands over his head, popping his back. Keith watches the lithe of his muscles, drinks in the strip of skin revealed at Lance's hip when his shirt rides up. This. This is the first time Keith has the privilege of watching Lance and _enjoying_. There's no Galran army looming over their conscious (at least, no more than usual), and here in the lighthearted friendship of the team, Keith is allowed to _have_. And damn if he's not going to take any chance he can to enjoy Lance in all that he is: sweet and gorgeous and _Keith's_.

“What for?” Lance asks, sounding curious.

“Before I got attacked by the druid—Red showed me something. Told me something? I don't know. This planet has some sort of connection to Green.” Keith makes his way around the counter again, brushing his hand over Lance's hip, partly because he's trying to urge Lance into movement, and partly because he can't help himself. Lance shivers under the touch, the softest brush of claws over skin, warmed as their blood sings together from the contact.

“Okay I have no idea how any of the things you just said relate but okay.”

Lance leans slightly in Keith's touch, and Keith uses the new pressure to nudge him away from the counter, even as Lance plants his feet and tilts his chin up in Hunk's direction.

“I'll be good here,” Hunk says, answering the unspoken question as Lance looks to his friend. He quirks an eyebrow, and Hunk sends him a comforting, lopsided grin. “Don't worry. I won't put anything weird in it this time.”

“Double batch?” Lance asks, hiking a thumb in Keith's direction. “So that way one for each—”

“No,” Keith growls, so furiously that he accidentally pulses the tone over the mating bond, and he feels like Lance screech in indignant protest against his mind, though his face remains smugly impassive. “I'm not carrying around lube just because of your incessant lust.”

“No, you'll be carrying around lube because you can't resist me,” Lance purrs, sending Keith the lewdest thoughts over the bond he can apparently come up with: memory of their combined gasps and moans, the heat and slick of skin on skin, and imagined visions of them together, pinned against each other, hands roving and lips molded together. Keith tries to fight down the rising heat threatening his entire body (though he does tuck away a couple of Lance's apparent fantasies for future reference).

Once he promises himself he won't prove Lance correct right then and there, Keith gives a disagreeing snort. “Keep dreaming.”

Lance chuckles, soft and low, and quirks an eyebrow at him. Keith swats at his arm before he can send any more mental images, and Hunk interrupts their banter, anyway: “Yeah, sure. I'll leave it in your room.”

Keith lets out a screech. He expects this nonsense from Lance, but Hunk? _Hunk_? Then he does a double-take, because Lance's personality is seriously affecting him, and he's not entirely sure if that's a good thing. Lance laughs, the sound vibrating through Keith's bones—lighthearted and carefree enough that it threatens to pull a purr from Keith's chest. He clamps his mouth shut, an attempt to cling to his pride and obstinacy at the same time.

“Relax, Babe,” Lance soothes, arm snaking around Keith's waist. “You'll thank me later.”

Hunk clears his throat pointedly.

“And you'll thank Hunk later, too,” Lance amends.

“Nope, nopenopenope,” Keith huffs, throwing his arms in the air and swiveling out of Lance's hold. He starts walking out of the kitchen. “Too weird for me. Way too weird. Lance, meet us in Green's hangar in five.”

 

 

 

By the time Keith made it back to Green's hangar, a headache had started at the edge of his temples, so he removed the echolocation headpiece while he waited for Lance (distinctly fifteen minutes, not the five Keith had requested, but he's in love with the boy, so he'll cut him some slack). He drank in the silence, eyes closed as he leaned back against Green's paw. It wasn't so jarring, that way, he found: if he closed his eyes and kept them as such while he switched between use of the headband, it almost felt like he really had use of his eyes returned to him.

Lance saunters in a few moments later. Or, at least, that's what Keith presumes from the lazy tap of his footsteps, unhurried and casual. Keith feels their bond tighten as Lance nears, brushes fingers through Keith's hair, pets at the spot that instantly draws out a purr. Keith nuzzles up towards him, mostly out of instinct, otherwise he'd probably realize exactly how cat-like he was acting and catch himself before he could do anything embarrassing. But he doesn't stop himself. Instead, nudging up into Lance's hand, he carries on the purr and rubs his cheek into Lance's palm, nosing along his wrist and giving the skin a few gentle licks.

Lance chuckles, soft and gentle, and presses a kiss to Keith's forehead, brushing hair out of the way with his nose. “Good kitty,” he breathes, and Keith feels the air dust across his skin, leaving a cloud of heat that trickles from Keith's cheeks down to his collarbone.

He freezes for a moment, brain finally catching up with his movement, and the purr stutters. Lance laughs again, heartier this time, and brushes his hand over Keith's head one last time. “Want help with that?” He asks, and Keith feels the weight of the headband in his hand shift as Lance fingers it.

Keith nods—he's not sure if he trusts his voice to do anything more than let out a mortified squeak—and lifts the device to pass it to Lance.

He waits, forcing his ears to stay still while he mentally prepares himself for the manhandling that comes with putting on Pidge's improvised hearing aid.

His ears twitch in anticipation, and suddenly there's a spike of something dark simmering against Keith's gut. He draws in a breath, steadies himself against the onslaught. “Lance...?”

He hears a huff of breath, and Lance warns Keith of his approach with a brush against his ears before he starts fitting the headband on. “Sorry,” he says, none of the venom Keith expects in his voice, given the emotions Lance just shoved over their bond. “Was just checking this out. Tryin' to see how it works.”

“You okay?” Keith asks, and reaches up to feel for the switch on the band so he can finally look at Lance. To see if he's lying. A hum fills the air, audible to only his ears, and Lance's face fuzzes into view.

He has a half-smile on his face, affection in his gaze as he brushes a stray lock of Keith's hair back into place. “Fine,” he hums, and moves to kiss Keith, quiet and soft against his lips. “Ready to go? Where are we going, anyway?”

“I'm actually... Not exactly sure,” Keith admits, lifting himself off of Green's paw. He pats the lion's paw with a gentle force, enough to alert Pidge that they need them to let him and Lance in. Green lowers her head, and Keith hums appreciatively at her.

Lance grabs Keith's hand as he leads the way—probably a habit he picked up when Keith couldn't see and needed the guidance. Keith feels his heart clench at the thought, that Lance has so adapted to him, has so flawlessly contorted his own lifestyle to fit around Keith that it's become nature. If there was any ever doubt about Lance loving him, it's shattered now, crushed beneath the gentle touches, the caress of lips, and the unfailing faith behind his adoration.

“Took you long enough,” Pidge grumps from the pilot's seat. “Let's go, girl.”

Before Lance and Keith have a chance to settle themselves, Pidge is jolting Green into motion. They both stumble, lurching for the pilot seat to attempt to find their balance or else be thrown across the cockpit. Keith misses the first time, but then Lance is wrapping one arm around his waist, dragging his body into his side, while the other hand clings to the back of the seat.

“You're the devil incarnate,” Lance hisses at Pidge, as Green edges into a run and Keith and Lance finally manage to get a good enough grip that they're not being tossed around like ragdolls. “I take back everything nice I've ever said about you.”

Pidge glances over their shoulder at Lance, but then lets out a noncommittal huff, and turns back to steering Green into the air.

“To the forest,” Keith directs.

“Well, what's left of it—Jesus Christ.” Lance breathes the last part. A curse or a prayer, Keith isn't sure.

Outside of the lion is exceedingly fuzzy, with the way the soundwaves hardly break through the walls of the cockpit. Everything inside is a little too sharp—multiplied by the reverberating hum of echolocation, and Keith feels like he's staring just a bit too close to the sun. The edge of his mind burns.

“Fuck, Keith,” Pidge mutters. “You really—damn, you did a number on this place.”

“ _Keith_ did this?” Lance cries, flailing a bit, and then promptly clutching at the back of the pilot seat when he almost goes toppling. Apparently no one really caught him up on what he missed after he left the battle.

“Technically, it was the druid that set fire to everything in the first place,” Keith protests. “And... I can't really see anything outside of Green so... What exactly are you freaking out about?”

“The forest is like... leveled,” Lance finally says. “There's _nothing_. A couple of charred trunks here and there, but everything else is ash.”

“Keith's right, though,” Pidge concedes. “We don't know if it was him or the druid who really did the damage. Where are we headed?”

“Uh,” Keith says intelligently. He tries to pin down the source of the energy Red was channeling before, but without her presence, it's harder to do, and Keith laments the fact they all decided to just take Green and make it a quick trip. This would have been so much easier with Red.

But he did it once before, with Blue. Sure, it took a year, but Keith managed, and now he knows Red and the other lions far more intimately. He knows their paladins; he knows himself. Keith tackles the thread of premonition, tangles it around his mind until he can't focus on anything else, not even the gentle hum of Green or the vibration of his surroundings. It's dark, but he follows the trail. “Turn right. On your two o'clock.”

“Got it,” Pidge hums, and Keith feels Green shift. “Any idea what I'm looking for?”

“Not at all,” Keith replies. “Little to your left. Slow down.”

Green tugs against Keith's conscious in a vague, distant way. She recognizes Red's paladin—recognizes his knowledge, fed by his lion, but doesn't know what they're looking for either. Green doesn't remember. It's been forged out of her, lost in the innocence of childhood, Red tells him. _What were you like?_ Keith asks her in his head, thoughtful. _Who were you when you were young? Did you grow with your first paladins? Did you also make mistakes?_

“What the fuck are you saying,” Lance huffs, and Keith realizes he must have accidentally sent the thoughts to him as well as the lion.

“Just... curious,” Keith tells him, a little embarrassed at the sentimental ideas. “Pidge, maybe land soon. I think we're getting close, but I can't see outside, so I'm not sure where I should be looking.”

“There's what looks like a cave over there,” Pidge reports. “Might be what we're looking for. It seems carved—or at least like it might have been at one point. Probably a good start.”

“It's at least something,” Keith says, and Green settles to the ground. Keith has to let go of some of his grasp on the trail of energy in order to focus on his surroundings. He manages to stumble out of Green's cockpit, leaning slightly on Lance when he almost trips. Pidge pats Green's muzzle, soothes her with some reassuring words, and then they're suddenly at Keith's shoulder, buzzing with excitement.

Keith hones in on the vibrations of the headband, straying off into nothingness in the distance in all but two directions: where Green is, and the jut of rock before them, stabbing out of the ground. There's a distinct blind spot—where some of the soundwaves are lost to some new texture or empty space. “You said there was a cave?” Keith asks.

“It's what it looks like. A cavern entrance,” Pidge says.

“That way, then,” Keith says, and starts in the direction of the cave. Lance is quick to follow, hovering at his shoulder, since this is a test of his makeshift sight anyway, and things can still go wrong.

Pidge scrambles after them, and then scrambles ahead, scaling the small rocky outcropping that cowers under the looming stretch of the cave mouth rising into the air, a planet's giant yawn. Keith climbs after them, and reaches his mental gaze into the abyss. “Twenty foot drop, maybe?” he guesses.

Pidge removes their bayard from their hip, and sends the grappling hook into the nothingness. The clink of sound follows, and Pidge hums an affirmation to Keith's estimation.

“It's slanted, too,” Keith observes. “We could probably slide down.”

“And how would we get back up?” Lance huffs, drawing himself up next to Keith.

“My bayard,” Pidge says, shrugging as the grappling hook snaps back into place at their hand. “Easy enough. Let's go.” They jump.

“Pidge!” Lance cries. “Oh, Jesus fuck. Neither of you have any sense of self preservation,” Lance grumbles, and gingerly steps down after the green paladin.

Keith glances back at Green, and she waves an excited tail at him. “Ready?” he asks her, though his voice is no more than a whisper, and then he follows Lance and Pidge down.

The landing below is a blaring impact of sound, and Keith's footfalls stutter on the rock. Lance is dusting himself off, and Pidge is edging their way deeper, down the gentle slope of the entryway.

“It's fucking dark,” Lance huffs, and then Pidge must flick on the light on the shoulder of their armor, and Lance screeches about it being too bright.

Keith can't tell the difference.

“It slopes down a way,” Keith says, and squints out of reflex. He growls softly, and then swipes a hand over his face to rid himself of the expression. Old habits die hard. “I can't reach the end though. It's open the entire way, though, and this caverns pretty big. I think Pidge it right about it being man-made.”

“Alien-made,” Lance corrects, and Keith huffs at him.

“You know what I mean.”

As they plod along, careful but steady, Lance blurts: “How did you learn to speak English?”

Keith's steps stutter as he does a double-take. “What now?”

“You're—well, maybe I assumed, so sorry if I did—but how did you get to Earth? You weren't born there, right?”

“Uh, no,” Keith admits. He tries to dodge around the darkness of his childhood as he remembers. “No, I was born on a Galra ship, probably. I don't remember much.” A lie. He remembers a lot, just nothing good. Lance can feel the falsehood slip off his tongue, taint their mating bond, but he doesn't press. Keith is sure he can also feel the chill that runs down Keith's spine at the thought of his past, at the ghosts of torture. “I didn't... Actually learn to speak English,” Keith says. “Not really. Galran half-breeds are born to be infiltrators. We're given an implant pretty early only for translations.”

“Damn,” Pidge comments.

Lance sucks in a breath. “What... What about tracking?”

“They would have found me years ago, if that's what you're worried about, so I don't think they're following me now. I, um... I cut that one out, when I escaped.”

“Cut?” Pidge echoes. “Holy shit, Keith.”

“It was that or go back. It just became another scar. Didn't matter.”

“What scars?” Pidge asks. “Was it in your arm?”

“I—what?” Keith stutters. “Oh, oh right. Only Lance—only Lance saw me before... Yeah okay. There were a lot, before—” Keith chokes on the words, not wanting to remember liquid gold filling his lungs, tearing at his skin. “—Before the day you rescued me.” Keith lifts his arms, inspects the claw marks down his forearms, from when he was first being rescued, but after the quintessence. There's a new set of scars, too, an arch from his collarbone along his neck, from the fight with the druid. “These are... all the ones from after.”

Lance's fingers dance along Keith's spine, under the paladin armor, and press against the small of his back in comfort. Love and affection trickles from their mating bond, and Keith hums a gentle purr of thanks at Lance in return.

“Holy fuck,” Pidge breathes. “Keith you're fucking metal, Jesus Christ.”

“What.”

“Never mind,” Pidge huffs. “Is there something up ahead?”

“Uh,” Keith says, and focuses his vision ahead. “There's an open space. That's all I'm getting.” Before him, the soundwaves stretch out, and the ones leading into the cavern ahead scarcely come back. In the distance, everything is—in a way, fuzzy. Patches of the surroundings phase out of sharpness in Keith's mind, and he scowls.

“Be careful,” Lance hisses, because Pidge's step quickens.

They duck forward, and when they pass into the open, Keith hears a faint, “Whoa.”

“Dammit, Pidge,” Lance growls, and hurries after them.

Keith follows them as best he can with his sight, but the waves echo into the vastness of the space before him, shimmering off the ground and scattering some of his senses. He sees Pidge dodge one of the fuzzy spots, and his frown deepens, and then— _fuck_.

Keith's yelp drowns out the sound of water splashing.

“What's wrong?” Lance squeaks, whirling.

“So, water is a thing,” Keith grumbles, gingerly stepping out of the shallow puddle. So _that's_ what those weird patches are.

“What?” Pidge sounds downright perplexed. “Wait—oh, oh my God, Keith,” they say, and burst out laughing.

“Looks like there's an underground lake, then,” Keith huffs. “Up ahead.”

“I'm confused. Someone want to explain what's going on?”

“I'm sorry—Keith, ha, Jesus, that was funnier than it should be,” Pidge manages, gasping. “I—should have warned you.”

“What's happening?” Lance cries.

“Water sounds like ground,” Keith reports. “Hard to tell the difference.”

“For future reference,” Pidge adds, restraining a giggle. “Places with different air compositions will also look weird. It'll probably take adjusting to wherever we go.”

“Noted,” Keith huffs, giving another puddle a wide berth. “Anyway. Lake ahead, I think. Another passageway to the right. I can't see much else. Room's too big.”

“Is that something in the water?” Pidge asks, as they approach the edge of the pool. Keith hangs back, just in case, a little wary of the accuracy of the soundwaves.

Lance crouches near the water's edge. “Looks like... A pod? I'm not sure. I'll check it out.” He wades a few feet into the lake, and then with a splash, Lance disappears under the surface.

 _Be careful_ , Keith hums at him.

 _I will, promise_ , Lance returns.

Pidge plops down on the bank, sitting cross-legged. Keith continues trying to reach his sight past the water's surface, but the soundwaves scatter too much: everything is one big blur, and Lance a shifting sound lost in the tides. So instead Keith focuses on their mating bond, tuning out his sight until all he feels the beat of Lance's heart, strong and steady.

“How old do you think we are?” Pidge suddenly asks.

Keith is broken from his concentration. He settles next to Pidge. “Not sure. Nineteen? Twenty? For me, at least. That would make you, what, sixteen?”

“I suppose,” Pidge hums. “Matt would be about twenty-one, now.”

“We'll find him,” Keith says. “Eventually.”

“He's out there, somewhere,” Pidge says. “I hope...”

“Don't. He's there. We'll get him. He already survived the Galra, outer space is nothing in comparison.”

Pidge is startled into a soft laugh. “I guess you're right... Bastards. They deserve hell.”

“We're giving them hell,” Keith points out. “Speaking of, Pidge... What did you do to Haggar?”

Pidge shrugs one shoulder at Keith. “I got payback for Shiro.”

Keith's ear flick back at the thought. “Wait, you mean—”

Lance surfaces, dragging air harshly through his lungs. Still out of breath, his words come out in a rush: “So it's _not_ a pod. It's some sorta tool? Like for mining?” He pauses to gasp in air. “I think this is where they mined things for making Green. Like this used to be not filled with water.”

“Seriously?” Pidge squeaks, scrambling up. “Holy shit, that's awesome!”

“I found this, too,” Lance hums, sounding smug as he rises, dripping from the pool. “Was like the only thing not attached to the rock down there.” He produces a vaguely rectangular scrap of metal. “Not much, but unless you wanna lug a drill here, this is all I've got.”

Pidge eagerly takes the object from Lance. “It looks like it might be the same material as Green's plating. Maybe she can get something from it.”

“Or Red,” Keith offers. “Red's memories are pretty messy, but she has more than Green. If Green can't get anything, maybe she can help.”

“Right, thanks Keith.”

“Hey, Babe, wanna hug?”

“Fuck no, you're sopping,” Keith hisses, and scrambles away from Lance before the other paladin can latch onto him.

“Aww, c'mon,” Lance whines, arms spread wide as he advances on Keith. “Kitty doesn't like getting wet?”

“Get away from me,” Keith growls, and scrambles for the passageway they'd come through. “Pidge, let's go. Allura wants to take off pretty soon, anyway.”

“What about the other passageway?” Pidge asks, hesitating at the water's edge.

“Pidge has a point,” Lance hums, dropping his hands to his sides. Keith warily approaches. “Besides, Green would probably be pissed if I hitched a ride and left puddles everywhere. Let's take a walk so I can dry off.”

“You'll freeze,” Keith points out.

“You'll warm me up,” Lance says, and winks. “Oh, God, I missed your grumpy face when I do that.”

“I don't have a grumpy face,” Keith argues. Then: “Pidge, wait up!”

“You two are disgusting,” Pidge grumbles. “I have no idea how Hunk stands either of you.”

“Hunk loves me,” Lance quips.

“Hunk is just amazing as a human being, that's why,” Keith offers.

“Can't argue there,” Pidge replies. “Now stop flirting and help me look around.”

 

 

 

In the end, they didn't find anything in the other tunnel: just a caved-in dead-end. Pidge mourned the possibility of further exploration, but they made it out fine, and Green greeted her paladin with a happy tail wag and a cheerful purr.

Keith didn't try to intrude on the memories Green regained from the metal, but he got bits and pieces from Red, who Pidge was using as a conduit. It was flickers of emotion: joy and kindness and _family_. Love, affection, Black's motherly attentions before they turned colder, corrupted by Zarkon's hand. Growth and learning and curiosity—regaining Black's trust, learning to live with the fact that Green's leader is sometimes just as lost as she is. Missing home. Missing _family_.

“Holy...” Lance whispered as Pidge wanders into the lounge, sniffling, after just coming back from working with Green. Through Red, Keith can feel the purr of Pidge's blood, fresh with new bonding with their lion, but they also opened old wounds—Matt.

Pidge doesn't say anything, just plants themselves between Lance and Keith, where they're cuddling on the couch (Lance actually did use Keith for warmth, but by now it's purely self-indulgent). Keith curls around Pidge's smaller form out of instinct, and Lance follows suit, hugging their shaking form until they relax into the hold.

At some point, Keith starts purring, and Pidge giggles, muttering a soft, “I can see where Lance sees the appeal.”

When Hunk finds them later, he lets out a soft squawk of indignation at being left out of the cuddles. But then he brings pillows and blankets and the snuggling is moved to the floor, where there's plenty of room and Lance has lots of space to be the most inconvenient bony little shit that he can, trying to elbow Hunk while digging his knee into Keith's thigh.

Keith is using Hunk's lap as a pillow, while Lance's back is pressed up against his. Pidge is still in the circle of his arms. There's a gentle tug of jealousy from Lance, but the protectiveness overpowers. Pidge is _theirs_.

 _Soon_ , Red thrums through Keith's bones.

“Soon,” Keith echoes to Pidge.

“We'll find him,” Pidge promises, though Keith suspects its more to themselves than to anyone else.

“What, am I not invited to team bonding sessions now?” Shiro huffs from somewhere across the room.

“It just sorta happened,” Lance calls back.

Shiro settles down next to Hunk, using the couch as a backrest. His joints pop as he sits, and he frowns. “I'm too old for this,” Shiro grumbles as he pulls Pidge into his lap, carding his fingers through their hair in a soothing gesture.

“You're like six,” Keith mumbles sleepily, rolling over now that he's not in charge of cuddling Pidge to nuzzle against Lance's shoulder.

“I... Can't actually argue on that one,” Shiro admits.

“What?” Hunk asks.

“He's a leap-year baby,” Keith says, chuckling. “When was the last time you actually had a birthday?”

Shiro goes quiet for a second. “The year I was gone.”

“Damn,” Keith huffs. “I don't suppose the Galra had cake.”

Shiro's startled into a laugh, and Keith turns over his shoulder to offer their leader a shy smile. He knows the edge that Shiro had just toed very well—the precipice of being thrown back into that place, at least in one's mind. He also knows far too well how to steer away from it, to lock the panic and emotions down.

Lance must sense something is wrong over their bond because he growls and tugs Keith closer to him.

“So, what prompted the cuddle pile?” Shiro asks.

“Green misses Black,” Pidge says, voice muffled by Shiro's side.

“Oh, there was a reason?” Hunk says. “I just assumed it was about time for one. We have a schedule. I've been keeping track. The record was about four months, when Keith and Lance were... gone.”

“Aww, you missed us,” Lance teases, poking Hunk in the side.

“Well, yeah, dude,” Hunk replies with a half-shrug. “We were super worried about you guys.”

“I don't care what Shiro says,” Pidge huffs, still half-unintelligible because they refuse to move their head. “From now on if someone goes missing, or gets captured or whatever, we're going after them. No matter what.”

“I like that,” Hunk says. “Much better than missing you guys. Or anyone. Much better than missing anyone.”

“I—this isn't a good plan,” Keith says, and sighs. He breathes in Lance. “But okay. We're a team. We stick together. That's how we work. Promise, Shiro?”

Shiro lets out a soft hum. “I promise.”

Keith focused on Shiro's eyes. There's truth there, far more easily read than the promise Keith made Shiro commit to all that time ago. The look they hold is relief.

“Why, Princess!” Coran announces from one of the entrances. “Look! The paladins are bonding.”

“I see that, Coran,” Allura says. “I thought today was a day off?”

“Aren't we warping, soon?” Shiro asks.

“I was curious where you all wandered off to, and I wanted to make sure the explorers got back alright.”

“We're fine,” Pidge calls, still mumbling past Shiro's waist.

Shiro shoots Allura a shy, lopsided grin. “Yeah, we're good, Princess.”

“Coran, would you configure the navigation system? I'll be along in a tick,” Allura says, and then settles herself in a flare of fabric on the ground on the other side of Hunk. Coran responds with some affirmative before strutting from the room.

Allura absently reaches over and brushes her hand over Lance's neck, fingertips dusting the implant. Lance stiffens, but Keith purrs through them both, and he relaxes. “Pidge tells me they didn't find anything with this,” Allura hums thoughtfully.

“Nope,” Lance replies, and shifts his head to look up at Allura. “I... I don't think it's anything to worry about.”

The lie stabs through Keith like an arrow, threatening to pull a growl from him. Instead, he tries to soothe Lance over their mating bond as much as he can. Lance's hold on him tightens for a moment, an appreciative gesture.

Allura nods. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I doubted you.”

“I probably deserve it,” Lance replies, sounding just a little bit dejected.

“You do not,” Allura insists, and brushes her hand over Lance's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Lance. You deserve better than how I've treated you. Keith deserves better than how I've treated him.”

“It's okay, Allura,” Lance says. “Like I said. I probably deserve it.”

“After the times we've spent together and the things we have been through, I should trust you more than this. After this long, it shouldn't matter what you are or who you love or why,” Allura says. “So I owe you this much, Lance.” She bends, and plants a kiss on Lance's forehead.

Lance splutters, cheeks heating, and Keith laughs as Lance stutters for a response. He buries his burning face in Keith's neck.

“So while we're talking about secrets...” Hunk says, tapping his fingers idly on his leg. “Maybe the Princess knows this, but Yellow was actually a girl. But he likes being a boy better.”

“Hold a fuck,” Pidge suddenly interjects, finally sitting up. They nearly knock themselves out on Shiro's elbow with the force of their movement. “Are you telling me your lion is trans?”

“Yes?” Hunk offers.

“That's fucking cool!” Pidge cries, the closest to squealing Keith's ever heard them.

“Black's nonbinary,” Shiro adds, shrugging. “I thought you guys knew?”

“I did,” Keith says. “But Red tends to leak information at me a lot, so maybe that's why.”

“Red's a gossip,” Lance huffs. “Blue never tells me anything.”

“I need to have a talk with Black,” Pidge announces. “Mostly about being a bad spaceparent but also because sentient lions have weird gender conforms and this is a thing I need to research.”

“Have we considered that Black and Shiro are both trying really hard to be good spaceparents? Can we give them a break?” Hunk says.

“I am trying—wait, hey. I'm not your dad.”

Pidge scrambles off Shiro and over the back of the couch. “I'll be chatting with Green or Black if anyone needs me!”

“Yeah, you are,” Lance tells their leader.

Hunk nods enthusiastically. “Allura is spacemom and you're spacedad. We've known this for years. Even though you guys are both kinda complete messes. But, you know, the rest of us don't know what we're doing, so...”

“Okay, I might be old, but I'm not that old,” Shiro grumps.

“Yeah, Hunk,” Keith teases. “Shiro's six, he can't be a dad.”

“You guys ruined the cuddle pile mood,” Shiro grumbles, getting up, and then stretching. “I'm only like twenty-four, you know.”

Shiro reaches a hand out to help Allura up. She's smiling, despite not taking part of the conversation, and she offers Lance a pat on the shoulder before she follows Shiro out.

Keith bites his tongue to resist calling a teasing remark after them.

“Hey, so, question,” Hunk interrupts Keith's thoughts. “What determines when and why either of you get growly?”

“Growly?” Keith echoes, and scrunches up his nose, thinking. “Do you mean protective?”

“Yeah, probably?” Hunk says. “Like Lance did it a couple of times while we were cuddling, but you were fine when Allura kissed him?”

“I think I know how to control it a little better,” Keith hums. “It's Galran instinct to protect your mate, but Lance isn't Galra so he's not used to it. It's more who we perceive as threats, either as mating competition or as physical threats. I'm gay, so I don't really... view Allura as mating competition. Shiro, maybe, or you, I suppose. But, and no offense Hunk, I'm pretty sure I could take you down in a fight. Which is, mostly, what triggers it. And Pidge is like... Our kid? Sibling? Pidge doesn't count.”

Lance goes stiff against Keith. Then, sounding vaguely panicked: “Wait a second—kids—Keith—we're aren't at risk at having space babies, are we?”

“Why does this occur to you after we've had sex?” Keith snorts. “Lance, I am male. Completely.”

“Well, I don't know—aliens are weird and stuff? And you're half weird? I don't mean that in a bad way—just... I don't know! It's a reasonable question!” Lance whines.

“Galra have male and female distinctions, but half-breeds usually aren't gendered because it depends on the other parent species. Most races don't have strict gender rules like humans. Even Alteans—”

“Allura has a dick?” Lance squawks.

“I mean, not exactly. They're shapeshifters, so—”

“Should I warn Shiro?”

Keith chokes on air. “Lance!”

“What? This is a reasonable thing that he would probably like to be aware of!”

Hunk clears his throat. “Shiro might already know.”

Keith sits up, dragging Lance, squeaking indignantly, with him. “What?”

“While you guys were gone—”

“Oh, hell no,” Keith says. “Stop there. I don't want to know about Shiro's sex life. Alien or otherwise. He's like my brother.”

“Wait, I want the details,” Lance says. “Spill.”

“Nope,” Keith quips, somehow managing to stand despite the fact Lance is still hanging from his neck. “I'm leaving.”

“Hunk, save me!” Lance cries, refusing to let go of Keith or use his legs like a functioning human being. Keith ends up dragging him away, and then gives up on tugging Lance along because the weight on his neck is starting to hurt, so he just scoops Lance into his arms.

Lance lets out an undignified yelp, and clutches at Keith's shoulders. “I'm being taken! Hunk! Help!”

Hunk just waves at Lance as Keith carries him off.

 

 

 

“It's been a while, hasn't it?”

Lance nods, a little solemn, as he cracks his knuckles. “Since... right before the mission. Feels like ages ago.”

“Tell me about it,” Keith mutters. “Lower your center of mass. You're too high up—you'll get knocked over in a heartbeat.”

“I'd like to see you try,” Lance snarks, and Keith lunges forward, hooking his leg behind Lance's forward footing and catching Lance by the waist with the momentum of his body. The move forces Lance to trip backwards over Keith's leg, and he ends up flat on his back on the training room floor, wheezing for breath. “Okay, I've seen it.”

Keith snorts and steps back, reaching a hand out to help Lance up.

Lance bounces back into place, dropping into position and lifting his arms up in a ready pose.

“Just... Be really careful with my claws, okay?” Keith says softly. It feels good to be back in his own territory—Keith knows the training room better than his own, but it also brings him back to a memory just before this entire journey began. Something in him aches at the thought, and Lance's emotions mirror his, a tug of sentimentality on their bond. “Promise?”

“Yeah, I'll watch out,” Lance assures, voice steady.

Keith lowers into his own crouch, palms out to Lance as he readies to take the practice punches. “This will be good, I suppose. Maybe it'll teach you how to be a bit more precise.” He shrugs. “And if not, it'll at least teach you not to mess with me.”

The bark of Lance's laugh is music to Keith's ears, so different from the halfhearted nervous chuckles the last time they did this, and Keith's reaction to it—the way his shoulders relax, ears flicking attentively towards his mate—seems to prove Lance's next statement correct. “You love me too much,” he purrs, “Empty threats, Keith. Empty threats.”

“Just go,” Keith huffs, ears flicking back guiltily because Lance is decidedly _right_ , but Keith refuses to admit it.

Three short jabs: steady and harsh in their thud against Keith's palms. Left, right, left, this time, and Lance finally knows how to use his hips—the last hit lands hard against Keith's hand and he's actually impressed by the power behind it. _Again_ , Keith wills towards Lance, and they both retake position.

Another three punches. Then again.

“You seem to be doing better this time,” Keith observes, testing the wrap on his hands to make sure it's still in place.

The air in Lance's lungs drags slightly from the effort. “What can I say,” Lance says, a little breathy. “I _was_ born left-handed, though I guess I'm ambidextrous now technically.”

“Really?” Keith settles into position.

“Yeah,” Lance says, grunting around the word as he hits Keith's palm again. “School made me switch. And anyway—hah—I've been working out so I can pick you up.”

Keith pulls back as Lance is lunging forward for the last hit, and he stumbles forward, not expecting the target to dodge away. “In God's name, _why_ ,” Keith deadpans, staring unamused as Lance fumbles to catch himself, spluttering insults as he does.

“First of all, rude,” Lance grumbles as he straightens. Keith quirks an eyebrow at him. “Okay, secondly, because the sex would be great?” The quirked eyebrow turns to a glare, and Lance's gaze flickers away uncertainly. “And... Because if something happens and no one else is there, I don't want to be stuck somewhere. I need to be able to carry you to get us out of bad spots. I mean, what if—”

“Lance,” Keith cuts the blue paladin off, and tries to temper the waves of panic rolling off him from their bond. “Lance, it's okay. I'll be fine. We'll be fine. I can see now—well, kind of—I can take care of myself.”

Lance glances up at him with the expression of a wild animal on the run—fierce and terrified at the same time—and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

 _Stop_ , Keith instructs gently, trying to sooth Lance. He steps close, and cups Lance's cheek in his hand, running his thumb over Lance's bottom lip to dislodge it from where his teeth are tearing into it. “I'm here, look,” Keith says, clutching at Lance's hand and placing it over his chest, letting Lance feel the purr rumble through him like machinery—alive and strong and a testament to the way their hearts beat. “And I'm not going anywhere.”

Lance still exudes worry through Keith, but he lets out a soft sigh, hand reaching up to brush over Keith's. “You're right,” he whispers, though it's so soft Keith can't actually hear it over the hum of his echolocation, but he can read Lance's lips. He takes a steadying breath—slowly deflating with the exhale. Gently, he prods Keith away from his mind. “Let's actually spar. I wanna practice.”

“Lance,” Keith says, even as Lance is turning away from him.

“I'm fine,” Lance says evenly, already heading for where his bayard is tossed in the corner of the room.

“Lance, look at me,” Keith insists. Keith's echolocation actually doesn't follow the same rules as sight, but he wants to _see_. At least, as close as he can get.

“I'm fine,” Lance reiterates, then, a little softer, as he bends to grab his armor. “I wouldn't lie to you, Keith.”

And Keith trusts Lance enough to believe him—except that with even the slightest tug on the tether between them, Keith is overwhelmed by doubt. Sure, maybe Lance isn't lying to Keith's face, and Lance wants to be okay.

But he doesn't believe it.

Keith calls for him again, reaches with his mind, but Lance draws away, folding in on himself. “Drop it,” he says softly. “Please. I'll be fine. Let's just spar.”

Keith bites the inside of his cheek, weighing his options, but ultimately, he knows Lance well enough to realize pressing something that's weighing this heavily on him is no simple task. It will take pushing and prodding no matter what, and eventually there will be a breaking point. Such it is with the blue paladin, and Keith will wait with open arms for Lance to come to him.

“Right, okay,” Keith finally grumbles, and trails after Lance, going to his own heap of armor on the floor. The unhappiness in his voice, he might be able to mask, but he can't hide the dejected droop to the tips of his ears, and Lance instantly catches on.

“I'm sorry,” he says, after locking an arm guard in place. He reaches up to scratch softly against the base of Keith's ears, and Keith instinctively leans into the touch. “It's fine, Babe. Just worried about you a little too much, I guess. A good night's sleep wouldn't hurt, either.”

Keith hums a soft response, leaving his concern to trickle past Lance's mental barriers. “Something happened to my bayard when I was fighting the druid,” Keith says, lifting the object in question in his hands after he fits his armor on.

Lance stiffens. “Bad something?”

“Dunno,” Keith replies, turning over his weapon. “The weight shifted, and the blade changed, but I couldn't tell what happen at the time.”

“Well, guess we'll see?” Lance offers, turning with a hand on his hip and his own bayard in the other.

“Guess so,” Keith says, and his bayard begins to morph.

It's slow at first, the way the weight changes, form elongating, even though Keith can't actually see any of it happening (soundwaves and Altean magic don't mix well, apparently). Lance must be able to recognize the transformation before Keith, because there's an awed, “Holy shit,” from his direction.

And then Keith suddenly isn't looking at his inactivated bayard anymore—now it's a blade, curved so sharply at the end that the point is facing Keith's hand, rather than forward. Over the hilt is a separate crescent blade, protecting Keith's knuckles, and he realizes this must have been how he killed the druid before.

Keith turns the hook sword in his hands—too heavy, he thinks, but then the blade splits in half, and he realizes he's holding the pair flush against each other.

“Not fair,” Lance grumbles, crossing his arms, as Keith gives a few experimental swings with a sword in each hand.

“Totally fair,” Keith huffs back, through a dark chuckle. “These are fucking awesome.”

“That's exactly why it's not fair!”

Keith sends Lance a wicked grin, all predator and sharp canines. “Wanna spar?”

“Do you even know how to use those?”

“Wanna find out?” Keith prods.

“Not exactly—” Lance's voice cuts off into a sharp screech as Keith ducks and spins, catching the back of Lance's ankle with one of the hooks, and tugging.

Lance splays in an undignified heap on his back, staring up at Keith an expression like he's not sure if he should be pissed or scared.

“I thought you two worked things out.” The low voice flits from across the room, velvet in its teasing.

“Just tying up loose ends,” Keith tells their leader smoothly. He turns and grins at Shiro, brandishing the new weapons. “Look what I got.”

Shiro's head tilts curiously, and he reaches for one of the hook swords as he nears. Keith lets him take it, watches as he slices through the air in a smooth arc, all perfectly controlled power. Shiro's form with the blade is perfect—after all, he taught Keith to use them. The black paladin slams his elbow back, jabbing with the knife blade on the other end of the hilt, before spinning in a tight circle, blade following his opposite shoulder.

He ends the display with a flourish of spinning metal as he twists the hilt in his hand, never losing grip, and then offers the weapon back to Keith. “Good sword,” Shiro hums appreciatively. “You seem to remember them well, too,” he says with a chuckle veiled in his voice, gesturing at Lance, still laying on his back on the floor. “You okay, there, Lance?”

“Peachy,” Lance replies, crossing his arms and staring adamantly at the ceiling.

“How'd the negotiations go?” Keith asks.

“Haven't gone yet,” Shiro sighs. “This race has an extensive system of courtship with all formal alliance matters. The princess has been wooing the king with poetry for the past few vargas. She just gave me the green light to head over, though my presence is more for show than anything else. Another formality.”

“I can't believe Allura's flirting with someone other than me. I'm being cheated on,” Lance bemoans, and then, gaze flicking to Shiro: “I can't believe she's cheating on _you_.”

“Lance,” Shiro warns, and turns away. Keith quirks an eyebrow at him.

Lance shoots up, pointing an accusatory finger in Shiro's direction. “You're blushing! So you _did_ hook up while we were gone!”

“Lance!” Shiro says, though he sounds more mortified than scolding. “We did not—”

“Ah—ah—ah,” Lance coos, shaking his head in time with his disbelieving noises. “You totally did. Hunk told us, and you're blushing, and that's totally a dead giveaway.”

“That wasn't what you said when I caught you staring at Keith from the training room observation deck almost every night last year,” Shiro retorts, cross his arms.

Lance freezes for a split-second, and then flails his arms dramatically, spluttering, “That—that was research!”

Keith turns and quirks an eyebrow at Lance. “Research on what, exactly?”

“Weaknesses!” Lance cries, and then deflates. “Yeah, okay—I fess up, your ass is cute. And you're hot when you fight.”

“I don't know if I should be impressed, flattered, or disgusted.”

“Probably the last one,” Shiro offers, laughing at Lance's instant look of utter betrayal.

“Assholes, both you!” Lance hisses.

“Excuse me?” Shiro says, every bit the commanding officer he is.

“With all due respect,” Lance drawls. “You're an asshole, Sir.”

Shiro frowns. “I hope you're not still going to be like this if there's a banquet tonight.”

Lance flips from petulant child to excited puppy in a heartbeat. “Banquet?” Keith can both feel and hear the hopefulness in his voice. It thrums through him. Public relations—now this—this is Lance's expertise. As long as he can keep the flirting to a minimum, any fancy shindig is a guaranteed success. The entire team knows this, and Lance's Cheshire grin says as much.

Shiro waves his hand in the air, a soft circle over movement that's achingly familiar until it hits Keith that it's one of Allura's mannerisms. He has to fight down the smirk as he relays this information mentally to Lance. “Gala—banquet? I don't know. There will be a celebration, I'm sure, if we confirm an alliance with the Valisi.” Shiro lets out a weary sigh. “I should probably learn the actual title of said celebration before I head out.”

Lance snorts. “Guess you better brush up on your foreign relations, Shiro. Maybe Allura can give you some inside information, although from what I hear, she already has,” he quips.

Shiro pins Lance with a dark expression, opens his mouth to say something, and then his jaw closes with a gentle snap. “Look—” he starts, and then doesn't manage to find words. “You know what? I'm just going to go. You two are impossible.”

“What did I do?” Keith asks defensively.

“ _You looked too smug_ ,” Shiro huffs, turning on his heel. “Expect to have to dress up tonight!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Nice!” Lance cheers, fist pumping into the air, and Keith groans.

 

 

 

The catcall was automatic, Keith realizes, but the breathless _“Oh God_ ,” that followed, a wisp of fragile awe from Lance's lips, is his real reaction. “You're gorgeous,” he whispers, afterward, gaze wandering over Keith's form while he lingers in the doorway to his room.

It's not the words themselves, necessarily, that make the blood rush to Keith's cheeks, but the absolute reverence with which Lance says them, and the way the surprise makes him drop all his guards, so Keith feels the same veneration dance through his veins the way it does through Lance's.

Keith starts to grumble a response—he's not in anything especially fancy, just a presumably maroon button-down and (probably black) slacks. He can't actually tell the colors now, but that's been the common trend in the past when the team had to go to formal events, unless the culture required special attire. Lance dons a similar style, though he has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he's actually attempted to do something to his hair, unlike Keith, and the locks are slicked back close to his head.

Keith steps forward, ignoring his stuttering in favor of focusing on Lance. There's a stray hair curling in front of Lance's ears, and with a gentle brush of a claw, he smooths it back into place. “Your hair is getting long,” Keith observes, blinking up at Lance's affectionate expression.

It flickers to playfully irritated. “It is,” he hums, “Was annoying as hell to do earlier. And speaking of, turn around.”

Keith scowls, crossing his arms and leaning away from Lance, as if that's enough to avoid the reach of his arms. “You're not gonna gel my hair, are you? That shit is horrid to try and get out.”

“No, the last time we did that, you wouldn't talk to me for a week,” Lance says. “I'm just gonna tie it back. Now c'mon.”

Keith snorts, but complies. “I was pissed. You wouldn't apologize.”

“For making you look good? Like hell I'm gonna apologize for that.” Keith feels Lance's fingers tug gently through his hair, parting it around his ears as he gathers it in place on the back of Keith's head. “Not that you need any help,” he grumbles, though his words are muffled by the hair tie in his mouth.

“What am I dressed up for, anyway? Alliance celebration?”

“Yup,” Lance says. “The usual. Okay, all done. Gimme your arm. You can't wear this with the sleeves down and get away with it. You try every time and I'm here to tell you that the fashion police will not allow it.”

“You mean you?” Keith asks, but complies. Lance is already tugging at the sleeve of Keith's shirt when he adds, “They'll see my scars. Fuck—they'll see who I _am_ , Lance.”

“So?” Lance says, continuing with his work. “You're a paladin of Voltron long before you are anything else.”

“I was born Galra; I wasn't born a paladin,” Keith protests.

“I meant metaphorically,” Lance huffs, and finishes messing with Keith's sleeves. He leans back, hands settled just below Keith's shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “God, you're beautiful,” he breathes. “And you don't even try. It's not fair.”

“You're not so bad yourself,” Keith says, sending Lance a wave of appreciation through their bond.

“Wow,” Lance says dryly, cocking his head to the side and pinning Keith with an unamused look. “Thanks.”

“If I say anything nicer, it'll just go to your head.” Keith flashes him an unapologetic grin, though far more shy than Lance's usual smirks. The curve of Lance's neck stands out to him, revealed by the collar of his shirt, and Keith reacts mostly on instinct when he reaches for Lance's shirt, fumbling for the top button with his claws.

“Okay, I know I have a thing for maybe getting caught, but is this really the time?” Lance teases, though he never stops touching Keith. “I'm not really sure if we can fit a quickie in before we have to go—Shiro's already waiting.”

Keith feels himself flush, and ducks his head away from Lance, hiding his blush from the smug curve of Lance's lips. “Shut up,” he growls, and finally manages to get the button undone. He reaches up and smooths out Lance's collar—drags it out to show off more of his neck and shoulder—ah, there. The nearly-healed scar of the bite mark Keith left on Lance's skin peeks out from under his shoulder and a wave of possessive pride washes over him.

“You, uh...” Lance starts, reaching up to touch the scar. “It does something to you, doesn't it?”

Keith resists the urge to kiss Lance, on principle alone. Lance is his. His. And Keith gets to show that off to an entire race, and they will _know_ that Lance has been claimed. Slowly, Keith brings his mind back to now, to Lance's question, and he nods. “It's—powerful.” He reaches up, slips his hand under Lance's to brush over the mark, and the warm tingle of magic flares against his skin for heartbeat before Keith is grabbing at Lance's hand instead, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “I want everyone to know you're mine.”

Without missing a beat, Lance turns Keith's arm over, tracing a finger over the bite mark on top of older scars. “Maybe you weren't the only one who wanted to show off,” Lance hums thoughtfully, and bends to kiss where Keith had bit himself so Lance could mate him. Keith shudders at the touch—his scar doesn't have the same magic behind it as Lance's calls to him, but the _meaning_ behind it and the way Lance's thoughts of desire and love and _mine_ simultaneously stray over their bond are more than enough to compensate for Lance's lack of Galra genes. Keith prefers it that way, anyway.

And then Lance is pressing his lips against Keith's: strong and hungry, but without any rush, as if he could devour Keith for hours and still not have enough. Keith melts into the kiss, melts into Lance, and he nips at Keith's bottom lip in response. Lance scratches lightly against Keith's forearm, over the mark, and gasps against his lips, “Can—can I?”

“Always,” Keith breathes, an echo of Lance's words the last time they did this. He lifts his arm to his own mouth and bites down until he tastes blood, and offers it to Lance. “You don't—” Keith's breath hitches as Lance licks a stripe along his arm, catching trails of red before a drop manages to fall to the floor. “—Don't need a lot,” Keith continues. “For it to take effect. It's supposed to be an exchange. I'm probably spoiling you.”

 _I like being spoiled_ , Lance's mind hums at him.

“Doesn't mean you deserve it,” Keith teases.

 _Excuse. Rude._ And then Keith is hit by a wave of indignity so strong that it almost knocks the breath out of him.

“I do it anyway, don't I?” Keith huffs, and Lance begins lapping at the bite marks to stop their bleeding.

There's an awkward cough from somewhere down the hallway.

“So, this is a thing?” Hunk asks.

“Right—you weren't there...” Keith starts, but Lance finishes the statement, breath fanning over Keith's arm.

“He wasn't there when Allura got pissed at us for this. Either time—fuck, sorry, Keith.”

“What did you do?” Keith asks, focusing on Lance as best he can.

“You didn't feel it?”

“I stopped paying attention to the details of pain if I can a long time ago.”

“Started bleeding again—”

“Here,” Hunk offers, pulling a cloth from the pocket of his slacks. “Use this.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, and Lance takes the handkerchief to start wrapping Keith's arm. “Guess you won't get to show it off, after all,” he tells Lance, who snorts in response.

“Pidge filled me in on some of it,” Hunk explains automatically reaching over to press on the knot Lance was half-way through tying, and Keith is mildly impressed at how in-tune the two are, as Lance finishes off his handiwork with a soft tug at the cloth to make sure it's in place. “They said you two were gross, but this wasn't exactly what I was expecting? Also, we should get going, Shiro and Pidge are waiting.”

“Listen, Hunk,” Lance says amicably, as they all fall into step on their way to the castle entrance. “I may or may not be dating a vampire and—”

“I'm gonna have to stop you there, Buddy,” Hunk deadpans. “You were the one drinking Keith's blood just now, so if anyone, you're the vampire here.”

Lance starts a count on his fingers. “Okay, first of all I am not nearly pale enough to be a vampire—”

“You seriously don't think that's a vampire requirement, do you?” Keith asks, and okay, he might be indulging his boyfriend a little.

“They never go in the sun! They have to be pale!”

“Lance, I don't think that's true,” Hunk says.

“Anyway, Keith is the vampire in this relationship,” Lance argues, as if the statement is even remotely supported by anything he just said.

“So, Vampire-Keith,” Hunk says, turning seriously to look at Keith, and it's at that moment that he realizes Hunk is entirely indulging Lance, too. Boy is _definitely_ spoiled. “What _is_ with the blood drinking thing?”

 _AM NOT_ , Lance yells over their bond, and Keith resists the urge to wince against the assault on his mind from Lance's mental screeching.

“It's a kind of natural high for mates,” Keith explains, and shrugs. “It's just nice. It's not exactly—like... sex-related or anything. It's a lot more stress-relief and emotional bonding.”

“Yeah, like you need more of that,” Pidge calls from up ahead, and Lance sticks his tongue out at them.

“Ready?” Shiro offers, before giving Lance a pointed look. “ _Behave_.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lance chirps, “Best behavior.”

“No promises,” Keith chimes in, leaning into Lance's side until he finally drapes an arm over Keith's shoulders.

Shiro closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh. “That's it—I don't care anymore. Just whatever you're gonna do, don't get caught. Especially by me.”

“Can do.” Lance grins, and sends Shiro's Disappointed Dad™ look a halfhearted salute.

 _No promises_ , Keith wills toward Lance's mindscape.

 _Is_ that _a promise?_

 _It might be me making good on one_.

Lance chokes on air. Hunk gives him a concerned look, but after his gaze flickers uncertainty to Pidge only to be met with a vigorous shake of their head, he resorts to just patting Lance's shoulder a little awkwardly and following after Shiro.

 

 

 

Celebrations in general are not Keith's scene, but he's at least grown _used_ to them by now. Where before crowds and the click of glasses and heels would set Keith off, spine rigid with the threat of proximity, they now at their worst bring a scowl to his face before he has a chance to school his expression into something more amiable.

But Lance—Lance is _living_.

He obviously missed the social aspects of their mission while they were captured, and now Lance is making up for lost time, laying the charm on any Valisi he sets his sights on. And damn if they aren't a sight to look at, too: dark skin ranging from—in Lance's words—“navy” to “black as a starless sky.” Keith can't see them, but apparently they also have winding markings along their limbs and torsos, revealed in teasing glimpses by the flowing fabric draped over their shoulders, that shine gold or silver against their bodies.

They're tall—broad shoulders on a sturdy build, and Keith can't tell the difference between males or females, which likely translates into the fact there is no distinction, at least biologically. Even as most of the race towers over the paladins, Lance isn't intimidated in the least, laughing as he leans invitingly towards a Valisi with a mop of curls on his head and decorative jewels dangling from his wrists and neck. Soft fingers of jealousy curl around Keith's spine, but he keeps himself planted where he is at the edge of elegant ballroom.

Lance must sense something's up, because his gaze flicks over to Keith, mischief glinting in his eyes and the curve of his lips. Casually, without breaking from his conversation, he reaches up to adjust his collar, and Keith's makeshift sight catches on the mark on Lance's shoulder—his. The Valisi must notice, because then Lance is pulling at his collar slightly, standing on his toes to give the other a better view.

He's showing off.

Pride rumbles through Keith in a low, involuntary purr, and he shoves away from the wall. Lance's eyes widen slightly as he watches Keith approach, but he quickly has to return his attention to his partner in conversation.

 _What are you doing_?

 _Stay_.

Keith turns off course, still close enough to the edge of the room that he can slip around relatively unnoticed, but—oh. Well, so much for Shiro keeping his relationship with Allura on the down-low. There they are, dancing in the center of the room, pressed close, Shiro's legs entangled in the folds of Allura's flowing dress as they both spin with intricate footwork. Keith rolls his eyes. They'll have to come clean one of these days.

But Keith pulls his focus from Shiro and Allura, searching the sidelines for a different paladin.

Pidge is talking animatedly with Hunk and a Valisi. They're on the shorter side for their race, only slightly taller than Hunk, but they still have the same elegantly powerful build of their kin. Over Pidge's head, Hunk's gaze flicks up to Keith, and they share a knowing nod—after a certain experience a while back in which an alien may or may not have wanted to keep Pidge indefinitely, it's become a silent agreement that someone always stays to watch over them.

As Keith approaches the trio, Hunk excuses himself to raid the buffet.

“Keith!” Pidge cries, waving their arms around excitedly. “This is Arras. She's a scholar for the Valisi. She knows so much about the evolution of tech here and in space in general—”

“Well, my specialization is poetry,” Arras interrupts fluidly. “But I've recently been working on an AI integration which implements creativity as part of their system.”

“It's super cool!” Pidge gushes. “I mean robots that _learn_ is nothing new—we taught them how to do that ages ago—but teaching robots to _want_ to learn is beyond anything. The Valisi are trying to make something on the scale of the lions without the use of quintessence to supplement life force.”

“I haven't slept in four quintents,” Arras says with a lighthearted tone, “But yes, that is our final goal. We doubt we will ever be able to replicate the diligence with which the lions of Voltron were crafted, but one can dream, right?”

“Uh—nice?” Keith offers. He turns to the Valisi scholar, and makes an attempt at a pleasant expression despite the fact he'd like to grab Pidge, figure out what he needs to know, and get out of here. He has a promise to keep. The thought makes heat simmer in his gut, and Lance echoes back in his mind with equal parts confusion and anticipation. “It's nice to meet you. I'm Keith, the red paladin.”

“You're a half-breed,” Arras observes, gaze flicking over Keith's form. “If—if I may ask, how is it that a half-breed became a paladin? I am always interested in historic accounts.”

“The Galra don't control all of us,” Keith replies mildly.

Arras nods. “It wouldn't be the first time. A refugee from the empire has been staying with us recently—Prince Elatha took a liking to them.” She motions towards the center of the room, where Lance and the Valisi he's chatting with stand, laughing.

“I'm—sorry?” Keith stutters, and sharpens his focus on Elatha—apparently a prince. That would explain the jewelry. It takes Keith a moment of silent concentration, scanning over Elatha's body meticulously while Arras continues to converse with Pidge.

Or, well, Pidge answers for Keith when Arras inquires curiously, “Do many of you use tech like this? I've only seen the red paladin with attachments on his ears.”

“He's blind,” Pidge responds, and Keith holds in the soft hiss at admitting as such so freely, though perhaps it's inevitably recognizable eventually. “I made a headband to allow him to use echolocation...” And then they proceed to babble on the details of their creative process, and Keith tunes Pidge out.

There, over the curve of Elatha's hip, between the slips of wispy fabric—a bite mark, scarred and humming with magic. He's claimed, Keith's instinct screams at him, no wonder he was so interested in Lance's mating mark. But that begs the question: where is his mate? Their absence fills Keith with a sense of foreboding, a mix of outrage and protectiveness for Elatha as a byproduct of pack mentality and the ingrained sympathy of losing loved ones.

It's a universal fact: mates are sacred. They are to be cared for and protected, no matter what. No matter who they belong to. The ties can be fragile, manipulated with the right dark intent, but they also forge a sense of kinship between the Galra that goes beyond shared features of tooth and claw.

“I have seen the Prince's half-breed,” Arras comments. “They are skilled a skilled shifter, and they hid amongst us for a quite a while before revealing themselves. But you, Paladin—you are braver. You are not ashamed of your appearance.”

Keith's ear flicks impatiently, but he turns back to the Valisi. “It's a skill many of us are taught,” Keith says mildly. “After we are broken.” It's troubling knowledge that the half-breed here knows the skills of their genes—another escapee, like Keith? Unlikely.

Pidge sucks in a breath—Keith practically feels the understanding click in their mind. Keith never completely submitted, so he learned elsewhere, they must realize, because the next words that fall from Pidge's lips are: “Who taught you?”

Keith's ears flick back, flattening close to his head instinctively. This is all getting a little too heavy, and really he just wants to grab Lance and find an empty room somewhere and— “Trial and error,” he says softly. “I was run out of quite a few places before I got it right and Shiro found me.”

“Oh,” Pidge breathes, but at that moment, Hunk returns with a plate of what Keith thinks might be pieces of a cut-up snake.

“What did I miss?”

“Not much,” Keith hums. “Pidge, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Pidge turns to him, eying him first in surprise and then suspicion. Keith tries to appear as innocent as possible given the circumstances and given the fact that what he's planning is decidedly the opposite of innocent. Ultimately, they let Keith drag them a few feet away, enough that a low conversation is drowned in the gentle music filling the room.

“You checked over the map of the building before we came, right?” Keith hisses.

Pidge regards him with a guarded expression. “Yeah?”

“I need somewhere I won't be bothered.”

Pidge crosses their arms and glares. “The Castle of Lions,” they grumble.

“Pidge, _please_ ,” Keith pleads. “Somewhere here.”

They let out a soft groan, closing their eyes wearily. “Only if you promise to stop making out in the training room. _I check those cameras_.”

“Deal.”

“Far wall, second door, follow that hallway. There should be a courtyard.”

“Thank you,” Keith breathes, and turns away.

“I don't condone this!” Pidge calls after him, but Keith just waves a hand over his shoulder at them, either dismissive or thankful, Keith isn't exactly sure. His mind is elsewhere, intent on long limbs and a teasing smirk.

“Keith!” Lance cries as he approaches, reaching for him. Keith dodges his grasp and instead snakes his arm around Lance's waist. “Elatha, this is Keith.”

“The red paladin, I presume?” Elatha asks. His voice is soothing bells, light and soft but weighed with knowledge.

“Yes,” says Keith, and it comes out a little more curt than he intends, and judging from the way Lance glances uncertainly at him, his eagerness is leaking over their bond. “I'm very sorry, Prince, but I must discuss something important with my fellow paladin.”

“Yes, of course,” Elatha replies. “I have already taken too much of the hero's time, I'm sure. I hope nothing is wrong?”

“Not at all,” Keith says, managing to put some cheer into his tone. “I just _promised_ we would get something cleared up tonight is all. Please excuse us.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Elatha says, sounding genuine, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Keith forces a polite smile, and Lance calls a cheerful, “You too!” over his shoulder as Keith tugs him away.

As soon as they're both away from Elatha, Lance whirls and hisses, “Keith, where are we going?”

 _I hope you brought lube_ , he sends Lance, instead of replying.

It takes the entire walk across the room for Lance to splutter out a “Y-yes.”

Keith's grin is feral as he opens the door for Lance. _Good_.

“Here?” Lance asks, almost incredulous even though his voice is a low whisper.

Keith shrugs, leading Lance down the hallway, “You've catered to my tastes. Now it's your turn.”

Lance lets out a squeak, and then tugs at Keith's hand as they round a corner.

And then Lance is pressed up against him, lips hungry on Keith's and Keith growls low in his throat in response, backing Lance towards the wall.

He'd planned for the courtyard—a little safer, in the long run—but here will do. He can still hear the party, the music and the footsteps of dancers and the occasional light laughter.

Lance groans as his back flattens against the wall, clutching at Keith's shoulders, fingers digging in as he licks desperately into Keith's mouth, moaning when Keith tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. Keith settles his hands on Lance's hips, tugging his shirt out from where it's tucked into his slacks, and then he slips his leg between Lance's.

Lance arches against him, grinding down on Keith's thigh, and breaks the kiss to let out a breathy moan.

Keith leans forward, pressing Lance harder against the wall so that he slides further onto Keith's leg and lets out a whimper. “You're going to have to be quieter,” Keith growls, nipping lightly at Lance's earlobe, earning himself a soft groan. “Or else someone will hear you.”

Lance shudders, and the movement causes enough friction between them that he has to bite his lip to keep from making noise.

Keith's hands trail from Lance's hips down to his thighs, and he squeezes until Lance gets the memo and hops up slightly. Keith picks him up, fingers digging into the soft of Lance's legs as they wrap around him. Because of the difference in their heights, Keith can't reach Lance's lips as easily, but he is perfectly level with Lance's collarbone, and he'll just have to make do.

Keith rolls his hips against Lance, and drinks in the breathless whine as Lance's head falls back against the wall. He noses Lance's shirt collar out of the way until his breath fans against his skin and bites down, just enough for Lance to feel the prick of Keith's canines but not enough to draw blood. Lance's grip on his shoulders tightens, and one hand cards its way through Keith's hair, scratching, uncoordinated, at the base of Keith's ears.

Keith lets the purr rumble out, presses against Lance's chest as he laps at the curve of Lance's throat so that they both vibrate with the sound.

“Go—good... b-boy,” Lance attempts to praise, but Keith growls, nipping sharply over the mating scar. Lance's hand flies from Keith's head to bite his knuckles, stifling the yelp.

“Don't try,” Keith says, voice low. “The more you talk the more likely someone's gonna come check out what's going on.”

“Ma-maybe I w-want that?” Lance breathes, tightening the circle of his legs around Keith's waist.

“You'd just love an audience, wouldn't you?” Keith huffs, nosing along the fabric of Lance's shirt until he catches the top button between his teeth. It snaps away and falls to the floor, forgotten in an instant when Keith latches onto newly exposed skin, planting kisses on any part of Lance's body he can reach. _Mine, mine, mine_ , his bones chant, and Keith doesn't need to see to know he's leaving marks on Lance's skin because he can _feel_. It's the heat of Lance under his mouth, the soft sounds of pleasure falling from his lips, the rush of blood, wild and aroused, that flows through both of them.

Keith shuffles Lance's weight in his hands, lifting him up higher on the wall to go for the next button, but Lance swats him away half-heartedly and begins fumbling with the shirt himself. Keith growls, a click of warning in the back of his throat. He's doing this for Lance—to please his _mate_. He's the one in control, but pulls back slightly to allow Lance to finish taking off his shirt. It falls back to his elbows, baring Lance's body to Keith, and he moves in with full intent to devour.

Lance's breath hitches as Keith swipes his tongue over his nipple, and then sucks the pebbling flesh into his mouth. Lance lets out a soft whine, and his back arches to push out his chest. While Keith continues mouthing over Lance's skin, he shifts his hands to rest under Lance's ass, kneading and occasionally squeezing just enough to prick Lance with his claws and make the air stutter out of him.

“K-Keith,” Lance whines, and tries to use the wall as leverage to grind against him. Keith pulls away from Lance's chest and begins working up his neck, letting Lance slip down from the wall until Keith can reach his lips. He swallows the moan Lance lets out as Keith rolls his hips forward, using his grip on Lance's ass to help press closer, and it's a nearly painful reminder of how hard they both are when they pull away, breathless.

Keith lets Lance drop to the ground, hands on his waist to steady him when he lands a little off-balance. “Turn around,” he orders, and Lance obeys, for once silent except for the drag of his breath between his kiss-swollen lips.

Keith wraps his arms around Lance, ghosting his hands over his hips and thighs, occasionally brushing over the tent in his pants and making Lance bite his lip so harshly that Keith smells blood. “Shiro would have both of our heads if he found us,” Keith murmurs against Lance's ear, and Lance trembles in response, leaning back into Keith's chest for support. It's a thought that Keith harbors for Lance's sake—for the entire purpose of riling him up and keeping the scenario as dangerous as possible, even though Keith would be able to hear someone approach the door.

“Is it better if it's someone we know?” Keith hums thoughtfully, claws tracing against the edge of Lance’s slacks under his shirt. “Or would you rather a stranger?”

“Either way,” Lance manages, and then sucks in a sharp breath when Keith finally starts working on the button on his pants.

Keith bites down on Lance’s shoulder, revels in the groan it pulls from Lance’s throat as he pushes Lance’s pants and underwear down. With a gentle pressure between Lance’s shoulder blades, Keith coaxes Lance into bracing his arms against the wall, dragging his fingers down Lance’s spine as Keith appreciates the closest he's going to get to the sight of Lance wrecked because of him.

Lance looks over his shoulder, a little hazy but also curious. “Need something?” he offers, though his voice is a little hoarse. “Front right pocket.”

“Not yet,” Keith purrs, and drops to his knees.

Lance’s eyes widen once his brain catches up with what’s happening, but anything he was going to say stutters off into a broken moan as Keith presses the flat of his tongue against Lance’s entrance. Keith runs his hands up the backs of Lance’s thighs before resting them on his cheeks to spread them further apart as he pulls back. “Quiet,” he reminds Lance, and then moves back in.

Lance’s legs tremble as Keith begins working him with his tongue, and there’s a muffled noise from somewhere above him—Lance has his shirt caught in his mouth, a makeshift gag as he moans into the fabric.

 _You’re fucking gorgeous_ , Keith sends him, because his mouth is busy elsewhere, spreading Lance open, and because this is something Keith can finally acknowledge for himself. He is in love with Lance—in love with the curve of his shoulders and the soft of his waist and the wild toss of his hair, even when it’s gelled back—and this is the first time he’s been allowed to both see and say it.

Lance must have attempted to reply, but instead he just opens a floodgate; Keith is affronted with such a wave of pleasure and arousal that he accidentally begins digging into Lance’s skin with his claws. It starts a positive feedback loop as they feed off the heat coursing through each other. Lance whimpers loudly into his shirt, and Keith groans in response, starting up a purr that has nowhere to go. It rumbles through Keith, catches in his throat when the air can’t escape, and he’s forced to pull away, resting his head against the back of Lance’s thigh while he gasps for air around the violent thrum.

Heat pulses through him—but whether it's because of him or Lance is completely lost to Keith. He's drowning in sensation, and Lance hasn't touched him once. They're both too enraptured in each other to recognize anything else.

“K-Keith,” Lance whimpers, and it's absolutely _broken_ , the way his voice cracks with need. “Fu—” but half-way through, he loses his voice. _—uck me,_ please. The words transfer seamlessly to Keith's mind.

And who is Keith to deny anything to his mate? Because something about Lance begging over their mental bond does something to Keith: makes him aggressively protective, gives him a desire to provide, a will to smother in adoration. A man in a dream, Keith reaches to dig through Lance's pants pocket for the bottle of lube he apparently carries around, probably for exactly this reason. Keith expects some retort—but Lance seems to be in no state to even think coherently. Hell, Keith is having a hard enough time processing anything.

One of his claws snags on the fabric, and Keith has enough rational brain power left to acknowledge that this is an issue. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“ _Please_ ,” Lance mutters back.

“No—I—my claws. I didn't think this through,” Keith grumbles, leaning back to try and think his way through the situation, entirely because he doesn't want to hurt Lance. “Again.”

But Lance makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat, something akin to a growl, and huffs out, “Lube. Give me.”

Keith offers it him, and Lance fumbles with it for a moment as he straightens. As he turns to face Keith, he half stumbles, and his shoulders thud against the wall. Grunting in annoyance, Lance kicks off his pants and pours some lube on his fingers, no hesitation in his movements as he reaches down to prod his own entrance.

“Just gonna w-watch?” Lance asks, breathless as he sinks as finger into himself.

Keith opens his mouth to say something, but gives up on words. Instead, he shuffles forward, settling his hands on Lance's hips and tracing his thumbs over the skin there. Lance's body trembles under the attention. Keith's grip tightens, supporting him, and he grins wickedly when Lance manages to look down at him with lidded eyes, lips part as his chest heaves for air.

 _You..._ Lance attempts, but then Keith nips at the skin on Lance's hip, and Lance's thoughts stutter into nothing but Keith.

By the time Lance works in another finger, Keith is lapping kitten kisses along the side of Lance's dick, licking the precum off the head, suckling until he has Lance moaning from how overwhelming it all is. As Lance is working in a third finger, Keith takes him fully into his mouth, humming as Lance's dick rests on his tongue. Above him, Lance is a constant stream of whimpered noises, soft gasps, and sultry moans he attempts to stifle by biting his knuckles.

But then Lance must manage to brush his own prostate, because he jerks forward, just slightly, but enough to choke Keith, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“Sor—” Lance tries, but then Keith forces his body to relax and takes Lance into his throat.

“Oh—m-my God,” Lance manages, and rocks forward. His head tips back against the wall, knuckles caught between his teeth, though seemingly more so to ground him against being lost in the pleasure of fucking into Keith's mouth while fingering himself open than to stop the noises.

Keith is losing himself to the hazy feeling of pleasing his mate, of having Lance's arousal have as much an effect on him as it does Lance, and he's completely forgotten where they are—until the edge of his senses tingle with movement, and Keith pulls back as quickly as he can without absolutely destroying his throat in the process. Lance mourns the contact in a soft whimper, but then Keith presses him flat against the wall, hissing, “Shh!” at him.

The hallway entrance had opened, and now a Valisi makes their way in. Keith and Lance go absolutely statue still, breath caught in their throats, but Keith can feel Lance's heartbeat pounding in his chest, all excitement.

For a split second, Keith thinks he fucked up—made this a little too dangerous, and they're going to get caught—but then the Valisi turns into a room, disappearing into vague uncertainty to Keith's echolocation.

Keith's about to breathe a sigh of relief when Lance's lips, hungry and firm on his, stop him. Keith groans in the back of his throat as Lance tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, laps against the seam of Keith's mouth until he's allowed in, and then maps the shape of Keith's tongue against his, as if he didn't already have it memorized.

 _Fuck me_ , Lance tells him, and this time it's Keith who has to choke back the moan threatening to escape.

 _Turn around_.

But neither of them move, because they're both too caught up in the slide of the others' lips on their own. Keith presses closer—not for the heat of his touch, but for the sensation of safety, of home—because he's so desperately in love with this boy that he's gone beyond his own boundaries to please him. Sure, it was a bit spur of the moment, but Keith takes it in stride; he accepts that Lance, in all entirety, has complete control over him.

Their lips slant together, a languid, reverent exchange, and it's only the raw necessity of oxygen to continue this act that forces them apart.

But once they pull back, panting, the sense of awe shatters, and Keith is gripping Lance's hips with bruising force, spinning him on the spot and grinding against him as Lance pushes on the wall for leverage to return the motion. There's a moment where Keith struggles with his slacks and fumbles with the bottle of lube, but then he's lining himself up to Lance's hole and slowly, as slow as he can bear, sinks into Lance.

Lance goes taut underneath him for a heartbeat, before he breathes out a satisfied sigh, and with the air escapes all tension in his body, pliant under Keith's hold. Keith leans over him, absorbing warmth from Lance's back, lapping the sweat from the back of his neck as Keith's hips hit flush against the curve of his ass.

A heartbeat passes where they both absolutely and entirely let their guards down. The first time, from start to finish, as mates, and they play off pleasing each other as much as their chase their own pleasure. It's euphoric, not in the physical touch, but in the brush of souls: Keith is wrapped in the idea that this is something so much bigger than him, so much more than his simple existence.  
He was practically born into slavery, and they tried to break him. And somehow, somehow, by luck or something more, some thread of fate, he escaped, then spent years under Shiro's guiding hand as he learned what it meant to be _human_. Shiro, who so wholeheartedly accepted him, despite everything, who told him stories of starlight filled with knowledge and healing, not the pain and dark past of the Galran Empire, and who put two and two together in the end when he realized Keith must be about the same age as the newspaper clippings he had from the failed mission all those years ago, the precursor to the Kerberos. And when he lost Shiro, Keith thought he lost everything—because how could the universe be so cruel to take the one good thing he had—but Red found him, through Red, he found Blue, and the team, and Lance.

And somehow his journey has led him here, to something he never dreamed of having: a mate he cares for with all that his entire being can muster. Keith has always run from the idea of accepting his Galra heritage as more than simple genetics, but here, he can feel the thin threads of connection, because mates are something the entire race shares, and even Zarkon, if there's any shred of morality left in him, would do anything to protect that which he is bonded to.

It would hurt too much to imagine otherwise.

And these thoughts flow freely between Keith and Lance. It's raw, and intense, and Keith can't help but feel he's being selfish, flooding Lance with his thoughts like this, but it's all so much—especially with the Prince being marked, and Keith's desire to protect and provide out of instinct alone is skyrocketing. And maybe he would dwell on the fact he's taking their bond for granted, baring himself so completely to Lance, except for the fact that Lance opens equally to him, lets him in, holds him through it as Keith pulls Lance against his chest, breathing in the scent of him and home.

The easy thing about it all is the emotions and memories pass like lightning through Keith's bones—one breath, two... and then the floodgates close, and Lance is trembling in his arms, and everything is _real_.

Keith pulls back, almost all the way out of Lance, and with it he straightens to rest his hands on Lance's hips, trailing his claws of Lance's sides over his shirt, still clinging to his frame. Time freezes. A ghost of breath slips from Lance's lips. Keith is absolutely in love—says as much, though he can't tell anymore if he spoke it aloud or simply passed the thought to Lance over their bond. It doesn't matter, because then he's drowning in the haze as he jerks his hips forward, still a slow roll, but enough to make Lance bite down on his forearm to keep from moaning.

It's all Keith can do not to lose himself completely to the floating sensation taking over his mind as he moves his hips. He didn't touch any of the food at the party, but he's drunk—on Lance, perhaps, or simply another's touch, though, at least, his _mate's_ touch is far more potent. It's the faint sounds of music from the ballroom that keep him grounded, even as Lance's muffled noises and his own pleased gasps and groans threaten to drown out everything else.

Something flickers in the edge of Keith's mind, but then he grips Lance's hips harder, tugs him back, and Lance's cries are muffled as he buries his head in the crook of his elbow. “Th-there... there...” he pants, gasping over his shoulder as Keith pounds into him again, and Lance bites down on the yelp, but can't stop the high-pitched whine dragging through his throat. _Yes, yesss, Keith—please._

The thoughts are barely words, far more raw intent and want than anything coherently decipherable, but Keith's pace quickens all the same, slamming hard enough into Lance that he almost loses his brace against the wall, arms stuttering up for a moment before Lance manages to readjust himself. The angle shifts, just barely, so that Keith's thrusts turn short and quick, and he's getting increasingly uncoordinated. So close.

 _I'm watching_ , Keith tells him. _Come for me. Put on a show._

Lance's moan, too sudden to stifle, cracks into a silent plea, head tilted back as his spine arches against the pleasure. And Keith’s beyond caring about being loud, because he lets out a raw groan, interrupted by a choked noise as a purr forces its way out when Lance clenches around Keith and his state of bliss rips through Keith over the bond, levels him to the ground, and he’s _gone_ , trembling as he leans over Lance to hold him close as they both ride out their orgasms.

It’s brutal, leaves them both boneless and panting, and Keith wants nothing more than to take Lance back to the castle and cuddle him until morning light, sated and happy. This is what Keith fully intends to do—if not for the soft click of a door from somewhere down the hallway.

Somewhere _past_ them.

Keith pulls out of Lance slowly, trying to force his senses to work at high alert through the fuzzy afterglow of sex. “Fuck,” he gasps, “What—” And then the scent of fear slams into him, a tidal wave of unbridled terror, and he catches an unfocused scrap of movement beyond the doors, presumably the courtyard.

While Keith is busy standing like a wolf scenting blood, Lance turns around and leans against the wall, still breathing hard. He reaches for Keith, but Keith catches the movement and it jerks him into action, trepidation roiling in his stomach despite the fact his limbs feel like jelly. “Stay here,” he hisses, taking a second to readjust his pants back into their proper position.

“Keith,” Lance manages, but Keith is already making his way down the hallway, easing into a run.

 _I need a shower, Asshole_ , Lance tells him.

 _I'll be... right back_. Keith's brain responds in pieces, focused on what's ahead of him or not focused at all. He hits the doors harshly, shouldering them open, and is greeted by a gust of wind that buffets against his face, rings through his ears.

Keith shields his face against the gusts with his hand—it helps, barely. The weather was fine when they got here, why—oh. Not wind: a ship. An escape pod of some sort, already prepped to go, and the source of the fear scent crouches nearby, stuffing something into a bag.

Claws—ears—the variation is different, but Keith recognizes who this must be instantly: the Prince's half-breed. Under the scent of panic, there's something familiar, and it bites at Keith as he approaches. “What are you doing?”

They whirl, turning on Keith as fear dances in their eyes. “I—You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me,” Keith growls, stalking forward, but something makes him pause. The lilt of their voice echoes in his head, and though he's processing slowly, it's achingly familiar. “Wait—Arras?”

“You _escaped_ ,” Arras says, claws flexing at her sides as she casts wary gazes to either side, back towards the pod. “You don't know what they're capable of.”

“And I went _back_ ,” Keith hisses, continuing his advance. Instinct makes him reach for his bayard, but—fuck—he didn't bring it. Shiro said it would be unprofessional. “Don't do this.”

Arras looks torn, canines pricking sharply into her lips. “I—can't. I have to go back—they—”

“You're not a slave,” Keith says lowly, “You don't have to listen to them!”

“I—” Arras backs against the escape pod, still humming with power. Her gaze flickers to the bag a few feet in front of her, and then in a whisper in comparison to the buzz of the pod, she says: “You can't stop me.”

Keith lunges for the bag, but Arras does too. They grapple for it, tugging on opposite ends, but apparently Arras deems it not worth fighting for, and she leaps away.

Keith goes sprawling for a moment, but he's a paladin—any basic training the Galra gave their half-breeds before sending them on their missions is nothing compared to the relentless drive Keith puts himself through every day at the castle. He's faster, better built than others of his kind. He tackles Arras just as their hands reach the pod, and the scrape of claws on metal as she clings to it crackles through the air like electricity.

“Let me go!” she hisses, growling low in the back of her throat. The sound sets Keith on edge, and he feels the fur on the back of his neck bristle in response.

He manages to get a grip on her legs, and starts dragging himself up to get a better hold on her. “You're not one of them! You have a choice!” Keith grunts as they struggle. He gets a hand up to her hip, and Arras shifts under him, suddenly vicious. Where her claws had once been digging into the soft earth for leverage, they now come raining down on him with a vengeance.

Keith ducks his head to dodge one swipe, but another lands on his shoulder, the harsh sting searing over the scar the druid left.

 _WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?_ Lance mentally screeches at him, and then he's actually screeching at him from the courtyard doorway: “Keith! What the actual _shit_?”

 _Busy!_ Keith forces back, and then has to scramble off Arras to avoid being clawed in the face—or worse, have her dislocate his headband, and then he'd really be fucked. Still feral, Arras lunges after him, snarling.

“You don't get it!” she hisses as they topple. Keith manages to block her arms, but without missing a beat, she goes for his throat with her teeth, aiming to tear the lifeblood out of him no matter what it takes. This—this isn't normal—no Galra would be this wild unless—

Keith drops one of her hands to catch Arras's throat, holding her back as she chokes from the momentum. Her free hand claws down his side, and he hisses in response, managing to get a foot up and planted on Arras's hip to force her off—and then before he can even put any strength in the move, Arras is gone, scrambling backwards, shuffling towards the pod, a hand curled protectively around her stomach.

“Don't hurt them!”

—Unless it's a mother protecting her children.

Her eyes are wild—terrified and all instinct. The realization hits Keith in full force, and he holds his hands out, a placating gesture. “They don't belong to the Empire,” he says slowly, softly. “You don't belong to the Empire. Come with us—we'll help you—”

“They're in my _head_ ,” Arras cries, bracing herself against the pod as she struggles to her feet. “You don't—they never finished with you—you can't even _imagine_ what they've done to me!”

“I'm blind because of the Galra!” Keith yells back, because he's starting to lose his temper. Arras is the one who _doesn't understand_. “We can _help you_. We can _save you_. You are more than just a tool.”

Keith can see the internal battle as it passes over Arras's face.

“What's going on?” A velvet voice. Commanding. Regal.

Instinctively, Keith whirls to face the Prince, whose eyes blaze with anger and sadness. He sees his mate—sees the panic in her eyes, probably feels it too if his sudden appearance is anything to go by—and Keith understands entirely when he reads the situation the way he does, assuming Keith is attacking her.

Elatha starts forward, all avenging angel, but Lance grabs at his hand, and tugs him back, saying something Keith can't hear over the buzz of the pod.

He turns back, trusting Lance to keep the Prince in check, but Arras is already snagging her bag from the floor, scrambling into the pod.

“Arras, no!” Keith cries, lunging for the pod, as if he can do anything after it closes. “Don't do this!”

But Keith's too late—his hands slam uselessly against the pod's window. Arras sends him a sad look, a soft smile on her lips. It's fuzzy, the glass playing havoc on Keith's vision. Bittersweet, Keith thinks, or perhaps only wistful for what could have been if only she wasn't so scared, if only she was a little braver. Keith growls and shakes his head.

 _I'm sorry_ , she mouths at him, and then the pod fires off into the sky, throwing Keith off with the force of it.

“I don't understand,” Elatha says. Keith can hear him now, from where he's landed on the ground, staring after Arras. “I don't—That was Arras?”

“You didn't know?” Keith asks, and he's surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice, a reminder of the brutal shift in mood from what he had been doing to where he is now. How the fuck did this go so wrong— “She must have been a skilled shifter, to keep you unaware.”

“I... Knew her as Sarra,” Elatha breathes. He sounds like someone in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. “I thought—I intended to marry her.”

“Join?” Lance asks.

“Your translator is different. He means marriage,” Keith huffs, picking himself up off the ground, wincing as his shoulder pulls on the new wounds. He hears Lance suck in a breath from somewhere behind Elatha.

“Now I wonder...” Elatha hums, looking dejected, but surprisingly strong. His shoulders still remain set, his stance firm. Perhaps it's the training of royalty, the years of being a guide and an anchor for others despite the inner distress.

“She mated you,” Keith says softly. He meets the Prince's lonely gaze. “I promise you, this hurts her a lot more than what it'll ever do to you. With the distance, you'll probably feel nothing. You'll be lucky.”

Lance is suddenly at Keith's side, tearing at Keith's shirt. He's not wearing his, and distantly, Keith wonders if he used it to clean up. The shift in setting is leaving Keith with whiplash—tired, unsure, futilely angry. _If only he'd been faster_.

 _Stop that_.

He's not sure if it's Lance's voice or his in his head.

“You need to bandage these,” Lance growls after he rips the buttons from Keith's shirt and manages to get the shreds off him. He sounds downright pissed, voice deadly low and dripping with ready venom. “Excuse us,” he tosses carelessly over his shoulder at Elatha, and tugging at Keith's good arm to get him to move.

Keith resists for a moment as they pass the Prince. “I'm sorry,” he breathes, though it's not enough. It will never be enough.

Not until the Galra are destroyed, not until Zarkon is taken out, and not until this evil, fucked-up tradition is buried in long forgotten history.

 

 

 

Lance is uncharacteristically silent as he settles Keith down on kitchen counter, disappearing for a moment to retrieve a first aid kit and some bandages from the medbay. He cleans and wraps Keith's wounds with meticulous certainty. Somehow, even without a mating bond, it goes without saying that neither wants Keith to go into a pod. They're both too scared of what the healing pods mean, that they imply damage that can't be fixed by normal circumstances.

They had made it back to the castle without any trouble. Only Pidge noticed them, really. They were half-way through pretending to gag at the sight of Lance and Keith both missing their shirts when they noticed the blood and their expression went still, pale. Keith waved them off, and with a soft shake of his head, he followed Lance out.

And now Lance is staring at his hands where they rest in fists against the counter Keith's sitting on. Keith can feel the anger roll off him, and it tempers against his own displeasure with himself. If he had been able to get there a little sooner—

“ _Stop_.” It's an order. Lance doesn't look at him, just lets the word fall into the room like it's a bomb being dropped.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs, reaching for one of Lance's hands. He doesn't move when their fingers brush.

“No, you aren't,” Lance hisses. “You can't keep doing this, Keith—can't keep running off like this. You keep getting yourself hurt.”

Keith presses his lips together in a thin line for a moment. “I had to do something, Lance—I... I couldn't just... Stand by. I'm sorry about leaving so quickly, I just—”

“It's not that!” Something pats against the back of Keith's hand—teardrops, he realizes, and the revelation stabs through him. “It's—you're rash. You don't listen. You just jump into things and you keep getting hurt and—and I can't just watch you do this to yourself, Keith. It's tearing me apart.”

“Lance,” Keith breathes, and pulls Lance in between his legs, hugging him to his chest. The wet of Lance's tears presses against Keith's good shoulder, and he holds on for dear life. They both do. It's heart-wrenching, and Keith feels Lance's worry tear through him. “I'm sorry. I'll—” _try._

But it doesn't matter because Lance is kissing him, hard enough to bruise, and Keith tastes blood from when Lance bit into his lip earlier. He'll give Lance anything, but selfish, selfish... the balance is tipping as Keith tugs Lance's lip in between his own, sucking until the blood flows freely into his mouth. Lance groans in response, tugging Keith roughly off the counter, bodies bumping as they refuse to break apart.

But it's Lance who caves. “Bed. Now,” he growls, breath huffing against Keith's lips.

“Again?” Keith breathes, even as he lets Lance pull him towards the bedrooms.

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance says, and it's all need. And then he opens their bond, flushes the lingering sadness and anger with something heated, a coil of desire and desperation that quickens Keith's step as Lance leads him through the castle.

They half-stumble into Keith's bedroom—it's closer—and Keith is the first to tumble onto the bed, landing on his back. Lance is on him in an instant, knees planted on either side of his hips and lips hungry on his. Keith feels the heat of Lance under his hands, revels in the taste of him, but his head is swimming... Drowning in the lingering emotions and the size of the castle.

Lance pulls away with a pout when Keith stops returning his kiss as fervently as before. “Something wrong?”

“Just—getting a headache,” Keith mumbles, reaching for the echolocation device. “Lot going on today.”

Lance lets out a contemplative hum brushing his fingers over Keith's ears. “Let me,” he says, and gently removes the headband. Keith braces himself for the impact of nothingness, but it still takes the breath out of him for a moment.

And then he lets out a wheeze for an entirely different reason, because as quickly as Lance left to put the headband somewhere safe, he's back, mouthing over Keith's half-hard dick through his slacks, insistent and unrelenting. He's still reeling from his missing sight, ears ringing with the residual sensation of echolocation, but Lance is a ready distraction as he tugs Keith's pants down, a little impatient and more forceful than necessary.

But Keith tips his head back with an airy moan as Lance sets about nipping and licking at Keith's thighs. They're soft kisses as first, then increasingly more possessive marks as Lance sucks on Keith's skin. Each time he makes contact, Keith twitches in response, still not used to being unable to sense Lance coming, but as Lance works over him, he relaxes into the touches.

It's okay, he tells himself, to let go. Earlier was for Lance, but now—now it's just the two of them. There's no party; no Valisi to interrupt. No half-breeds to ruin the mood. Keith doesn't have to face the lingering memories, teetering on the edge of pain, because that's something to face another day. For now, there is Lance, unabashed as he takes Keith into his mouth in one swift movement, and the choked noise of pleasure Keith manages to get out around the sudden purr.

He lets himself go.

The fall is soft, a gentle landing cushioned by affection.

So Keith once again bares himself to Lance—not that he ever really cuts him off completely at this point, the gentle ebb of emotion from each other has become second-nature before either one of them realized it—but there's no flood of realization this time, only a trickle of mostly incoherent thought. It's a soft press of pleasure, a sensation of safe, a caress of comfort. Home. _Home_. What Keith had never truly had, he finds in Lance.

Lance pulls back, slipping off the bed. Keith lifts himself up enough that he's resting on his elbows, ears flicked in Lance's direction where he can hear the rustling of fabric, but he simply waits. Lance will come back. Lance always comes back.

Keith reaches for his mind, feels the tug of their bond as Lance calls back but doesn't open up to him, giving him no hints as to what Lance is doing across the room. He feels an edge of hesitation leaking from their bond, but then Lance is back, settling himself on top of Keith, filling the air with intent.

Lance settles a hand against Keith's chest, guiding him back against the bed, and Keith settles back, hands going to rest on Lance's now-bare legs straddling his hips. He feels tiredness seep into his own muscles as he squeezes Lance's thighs, but Lance seems to move effortlessly as he slides a hand over Keith's chest, ghosts his fingers along his jawline. Keith feels them tremble as he turns to press a kiss into Lance's palm.

Lance huffs a soft sigh, grows impatient—Keith hears the pop of the cap of a bottle of lube, and then Lance is sliding a hand over Keith's dick. Keith tenses for a moment in response, because that was not what he was expecting, and he's definitely not expecting when Lance lines himself up over Keith and slowly eases down with a soft groan.

Belatedly, the thought occurs to Keith that Lance is riding him. Distantly, he regrets not keeping his headband on. He would have liked to watch.

 _Another time_ , Lance tells him. Keith feels the blush heat his cheeks because he hadn't actually intended to let that thought go, but he's too relaxed in the cage of Lance's arms to filter what passes over their tether.

Lance exhales, and it sounds like the weight of the world falls from his shoulders in one breath. It lands against Keith's chest, melds against him, splaying over his limbs, and then is brushed away as Lance plants his hands over Keith's chest to steady his movements as he lifts himself up, muscles in his thighs tensing under Keith's fingers.

With Lance moving, Keith is free to lose himself to the floating feeling tugging at the edges of his system. All that exists is the searing _heat_ of Lance, the tightness of his body as he works on Keith. There's the soft gasps shared between the two of them, both lost for words or thought, though a steady message of _intent_ strums from Lance's being as he works up a pace until he's bouncing on Keith's lap.

Keith isn't even sure when he starts meeting Lance with little thrusts of his own, planting his feet against the bed to brace himself as he instinctively tries to find the right angle that will have Lance moaning his name. The shift is subtle, a gentle pressure against Lance's ass with Keith's thighs to get him to lean forward a bit more, and then he lets out a choked noise, pace stuttering as he tries to regain control.

It's only a heartbeat where Lance's loses his ability to think, his ability to reserve some things to himself, and Keith is affronted with such raw emotion that it brings tears to the corners of his eyes. The concern hits him first, a brutal uppercut that leaves Keith panting, but then Lance rubs the pad of his thumb over Keith's nipple, and everything fades into the touch.

Betrayal, pain. Kicks against his ribs.

Lance lets out a soft groan, and there's the scent of faint arousal and the sound of skin on skin, mismatched with the pace of his hips. Keith willingly drowns in the sounds of Lance's hand sliding over his own dick, slowly matching pace to the rise and fall of his body.

There's another few heavy breaths of frenzied movement, as Lance's hand on Keith's chest stutters into tense stillness. A soft whimper—and then Keith feels the splatter of cum as Lance's orgasm rips through him.

It hits Keith like a tidal wave over their bond, slamming him to the ground and keeping him pinned there with all the force of a Galra soldier. It's thrown at him, and between the bliss flooding his mind and Lance clenching around him, rocking against Keith's hips even though he's sensitive and sending little shocks of lightning through Keith's nerves, Keith feels himself swept away by the ocean, pulled under, and he is lost to the pleasure with an arch of his back and a silent cry tearing from his lips.

Keith is spent, boneless as his chest heaves. He barely manages a wince as Lance eases off of him, oversensitive after coming down from the high so soon. He mourns the touch of Lance's body as soon as he slides off him, but then feels breath puff against his thighs, still twitchy from his orgasm. Blearily, Keith tries to process what's happening, but he's reduced to the barest responses, raw emotion and uninhibited thought.

Perhaps, if Keith wasn't so incoherent, he might beg, plead that this is too much—but is it? As Lance's tongue presses against his entrance, the only thing Keith can think is that it's good, never mind that everything is too intense, the feeling of Lance lapping at his hole and slowly working his way in with his tongue shockwaving all over Keith's body. He whines, a plea for more or stop, he's unsure, but he wants neither, actually.

He wants Lance.

And if this is what Lance will give him, Keith will gladly take it.

Keith feels distant, feels as if he's splitting into two—one in which it's all too much, too intense, and another in which it's not enough and he needs more than this damn teasing—but he's really just one, uncertain on the line of pain or pleasure. This skin sizzles with sensation, the way Lance's intent and determination and—shit, _anger—_ bleeds onto Keith, then evaporates into the air with each lick or prod of Lance's tongue.

It's brutally disorienting, more so than the haze he seems to always fall into after having sex with Lance, and the purpose drops, indeterminate, against the sheets as Keith writhes against them, unwilling to pull away but simultaneously deciding he can't take this anymore.

Eventually, just when Keith feels like he's actually about to break in half or like he'll begin clawing at his own skin to let out the buildup of bleak, undirected euphoria, Lance slips a lubed finger into him, replacing his tongue, and only takes a heartbeat of prodding to find Keith's prostate.

Keith can't find it in himself to respond verbally—he arches his back and clutches at the sheets, unable to form words, or even thoughts. He's blissfully blank, empty except for Lance, mercilessly bringing him to the edge of torture with electric intensity. Keith doesn't exactly recognize the fact he's shaking; he merely acknowledges that the world seems to be jostling a little more than usual, and Lance seems unconcerned by that fact given the way he continues to—well, _please_ isn't quite the right word anymore.

Keith shatters.

He feels his body simmer with heat and electricity for a few moments—heartbeats pass, or perhaps they don't, and perhaps nothing happens at all. It's blazing and fierce and Keith is taken by the wave that hits him, drowning him much like Lance has previously, even though he's mostly sure he didn't come.

When it passes, Keith is empty—both of Lance and feeling. Everything sways, even though he can't see it, and the feeling of the bed under his back slowly returns, as if he's being gently laid against rather than pressing into it this entire time.

Lance brushes a hand over his leg, and Keith twitches in response, letting out a low whine, and then a soft purr, melodic and broken.

Lance says something, but Keith can't translate the words into meaning, and he lets it all happen to him, rather than being an active participant in existence. Feeling returns in short bursts—the brush of a cloth over his chest and ass, the soft of the sheets under his fingertips, his own limbs remembering their use.

He hears water running. He lets it keep time for the world while he excuses himself from it for a moment to remain in floaty inconsistency. He's back home, years ago in his bed in the shack, and then Red is calling for him, bringing him slowly back to the present—but his lion is a distant pull in comparison to Lance's will, nearby and _now_.

When Lance returns, Keith barely notices. All he registers is a new warmth, all comfort, and he submits entirely to the soft pull of it on his soul, and then there's the faint scent of basil—or was it parsley? Keith isn't sure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentions of body modification, blood, mind melds, semi-public sex, violence, mentions of toture/truama, injury


	10. Night Ten

“ _... Tell me something—honestly. Do you think love is ever a happy thing?”_

“ _... Perhaps it always brings more sorrow than joy. But who could do without it? Anyone who has never really loved hasn't lived.”_

\- Agatha Christie's _Poirot, Sad Cypress_ (2003)

 

Keith blinks into wakefulness, waiting for the fog to clear from his vision. And then it hits him. He growls in distaste.

The initial transition had been far less brutal than Keith had expected, but sometimes—sometimes he forgets, especially now that he can use the echolocation, and the switching sometimes screws up the way his brain remembers to process things. A sigh escapes his lips, and Keith rolls over, wincing as his muscles scream in protest.

The night before is a vague cloud of bliss that still hovers just over Keith's mind, blocking the occasional coherent thought from following through correctly. He reaches for the tie between him and Lance, tugs gently, and hums with satisfaction when he finds Lance is on his way. In the meantime, Keith lets himself fade in and out of content dozing, reveling in the warmth of his bed and the memories it holds.

“Hey,” Lance hums, voice blending with the thrum of the door as it slides open.

“Hi,” Keith mumbles through a pillow. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Lance replies softly, padding over to the bed. He settles a hand in Keith's hair, threads his fingers soothingly through the tangled locks. “It's fine. I told the others what happened, with your shoulder and stuff. They deemed it a worthy enough reason to let you sleep in.”

“Ha,” Keith huffs, turning his head to nudge one of his ears under Lance's attentive fingers. Lance catches on instantly, scratching at the spot that has a purr rumbling through Keith before he can even think about stopping it. “Past... lunch?” he manages between gasps of the purr.

“Not quite. Allura wants us after for a mission briefing. Shower?”

Keith goes boneless against the bed as Lance nudges at his arm. “I'm sore,” he complains. Then, back to business: “For the Valisi?”

“We left this morning,” Lance explains, and then tugs on Keith's hand. “Come on, you need a shower. Warm water will help your muscles, I promise.”

Keith lets Lance pull him off the bed, groaning as the ache settles more firmly over his body. He's not completely upset about it, in the same way he enjoys the burn of his muscles after training for too long or too harshly. It speaks of his progress, of doing something, and while this is a testament to something less noble, it reiterates his affection, a mirror of physical feeling to the mating bond that links Keith to Lance.

“Need my help?” Lance offers as Keith lingers in the bathroom while Lance turns on the water.

“No,” Keith says after a moment of decision. He reaches a hand into the water, hisses when it's too cold, and goes to fiddle with the temperature until it's more to his taste. “But you could stay if you want.”

“I might take you up on that,” Lance hums, and Keith hears the rustling of clothing that implies Lance is getting undressed. “I'm still sore, too.”

A pleased purr rumbles through Keith. “I wonder why,” he says, an edge of teasing to his voice.

“I dunno,” Lance flirts back. “Perhaps you could remind me.”

“Come over here, then,” Keith says as he eases his way under the water. “And maybe I could help you remember.”

And the entire scenario would be a lot sexier if Keith didn't splutter water everywhere, hissing violently when the spray caught right in his ear. Lance bursts out laughing as he brushes a hand over Keith's arm, a warning of his proximity as he steps into the shower with him. His chuckles cut off with a hiss of his own. “Jesus, this is hot!”

“You said warm water.” Keith shrugs, aggressively flicking his ear still, as if that will help fix the sensation of being drowned.

“Warm, not _molten_ ,” Lance growls, easing his way around Keith so the brunt of the spray hits him instead.

Keith huffs out a laugh, a soft exhale of amusement. “Well, since you're here, you gonna help?”

“I could,” Lance says, and then his voice drops into a sultry pitch. His hands settle against Keith's hips, and Keith responds by instinctively leaning into him. “But I thought there was a memory issue here we needed to clear up.”

“I mean— _oh_ ,” Keith breathes as Lance's hands trail downward, one curling around Keith's dick, just starting to harden under Lance's touch. Arousal thrums over the bond, Lance feeding his intent towards Keith, and Keith nearly goes weak from the heat of it, running through his veins. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathes again, and then Lance is slowly working him.

The excitement that Lance feeds Keith initially is enough to have him melting against Lance, but between the warmth of the shower and the brush of his mate's arms, the mood soon settles into a gentle simmer, soothing in it's slow pace and achingly carefree. Keith tilts his head back against Lance's shoulder, turns his head to lap the water from Lance's neck, tasting hints of sweat and love and regret.

It's soft and warm and slow and has Keith drowning in pleasure from the first moment Lance touches him, leaves him spiraling into that sated haze of bliss. Lance works Keith through the buildup and then through his orgasm, and then holds him as he recovers, panting against Lance's skin.

Keith feels a silent chuckle rumble through Lance's chest, and then a kiss is pressed Keith's temple as Lance steadies him. “You—” Keith breathes, sinking back into the stream of water now that Lance isn't holding him.

“I'm fine,” Lance says mildly. “Turn around. I'll do your hair.”

It occurs to Keith that this is decidedly unfair—the pain of it settles unevenly in his stomach. The thoughts swirl against his head, combat against the fog of the afterglow, and he's still not sure if there's a clear winner. “Okay,” he says, obeying even as his limbs feel like their weighed by lead.

Lance's hands settle against his hair, easing through the wet locks. He scratches for a moment at the base of Keith's ears, and a weak purr manages its way from his throat before his mood can stop it.

“Here,” Lance offers, brushing something against Keith's shoulder. “Soap.”

Keith takes the bottle, fiddles with it in his hand, claws tensing against the material but not enough to pierce it. His brain lethargically pieces coherent thoughts together. “Are you okay?” he asks Lance, words falling to the floor of the shower rather than directed at the blue paladin.

“Yeah, 'm fine. Why?” Lance replies without hesitation. He certainly _sounds_ fine enough.

“I can't see you,” Keith says slowly. “Are you lying?”

He hears Lance's inhale, feels the stutter of a tug on their bond. “I'm just... worried. Sorry.”

“About?”

“Losing you.”

“Lance, I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm here.”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes. “Yeah, you are. For now.”

Keith presses his lips together, unable to form an actual reply. “I'm sorry,” he offers, as if it's enough to quell Lance's fears. He doesn't know how to help, doesn't know how to fix this. Keith reaches for Lance's mind, and Lance recoils, drawing back into isolation. It tears through Keith, leaves him feeling empty, even as Lance steps forward to take the soap from Keith and begins running his hands down Keith's arms and back.

 

 

 

Out in the void of space, Keith feels his head clear. With Red thrumming comfort through him in the purr of her machinery, Keith feels at home. The other paladins are mirror tethers to his conscious through the lions, spread out like cobwebs across the stars. Lance's is especially bright, a strong flicker in comparison to the bond between lions alone, but Keith can't bring himself to reach for it, not when all he seems to able to provide is hurt and impending panic.

He feels Blue's gentle hum, soothing comfort to Lance and Red both, quelling the rising concerns from both her fellow lions and her paladin.

The threat of the mission twinges almost painfully against Keith's mind. It's just a bit too similar to the last one—the one they _failed—_ except that Keith thinks perhaps all missions may feel like this for a while, because really there's very little overlap. This time, Keith has the whole team with him. This time, their goal is to destroy, not infiltrate, and while gathering an information is a secondary task, putting the Galra general's fleet out of commission is first priority.

Allura's words still echo in his ears, unwilling to be drowned by the hum of his echolocation.

“Everyone alright?” Shiro asks into the comms. “You guys are surprisingly quiet today.”

“I wonder whose fault that is?” Pidge quips.

“Pidge, don't,” Hunk pleads.

“I just don't need my mood being shot down by their couple spats,” Pidge gripes.

“What now?” Shiro asks.

“Lance and Keith are fighting, I think,” says Hunk.

Keith tunes into the conversation enough to reply, dragging his thoughts away from Lance's gaze and starlight. “We are?”

“Maybe that's why they're fighting?” Hunk suggests, and Keith snorts.

“We're not fighting,” Lance says softly, lightly. “Just not... up to it, today. Sorry. Keith and I kinda play off each other when one of us is feeling down.”

Keith tries to fight the frown that threatens to settle over his expression and fails. He hopes the others don't catch it. While Lance isn't wrong, that's not exactly what's happening, and the half-truth—the deflection of the truth, at least—settles harshly on Keith, a weight upon him. “Lance?” he says, quiet and broken.

“Yeah, Babe?”

“I—uh...” It dawns on Keith that if Lance is lying to the others, he certainly won't reveal anything else now. Another time. Another time. “Um—good... Good luck out there.”

There's a gentle flutter of appreciation from their bond, and Keith clings to it, feeling hope blossom through his veins. Lance lets him in a little more, lets Keith sense the anxiety with the upcoming mission, looming ever closer as they fly on course, and lets him feel the stab of worry for him, the wariness of allowing Keith to fight.

 _I'll be fine_ , Keith tells him.

“Thanks,” Lance says softly.

“What, I don't get well-wishes?” Hunk huffs. “I feel like I'm the one who needs them most.”

“Good luck, Hunk,” Shiro says sternly, though Keith catches the chuckle under his breath.

“Good luck, Pidge,” Pidge tells themselves, and it starts off a chorus of exchanges, all of them trying to pitch in to get the others. Keith even adds his own few phrases, and though Lance stays silent, Keith can feel the soothing intent from Blue, acting as a messenger.

“Okay, okay, we're getting close,” Shiro interrupts the lighthearted chatter, mostly supplied by Pidge and Hunk. “Everyone ready? Time to split up.”

 _Stay safe_ , Lance says, and then Blue is curving away, following Yellow and Black as they arc across the sky.

“Ready, Hotshot?” Pidge teases, though Keith can sense their nerves in the way their voice is just a bit too high. “I'll race ya.”

“You'll lose,” Keith retorts.

“Try me,” Pidge quips, and Green shoots forward with renewed speed. “Lion bonding does wonders for stamina.”

Keith lets out a halfhearted laugh. “Have you checked your bayard since then?”

“No?” Pidge says back, and then squeaks as Red starts catching up.

“You should. Mine changed recently. Lion bonding does wonders for upgrades in general,” Keith teases back.

“This way,” Pidge commands, and the idea of a race falls to the backburner as Keith trails after them, weaving through the ion cloud Pidge leads them both into. They emerge on the far side of a planet, with the bow of a Galra ship just visible over the horizon. The plan is this: leave Red on standby somewhere close to the ship for emergencies, have Green use her cloaking to get Pidge and Keith inside, and then fight their way to the control room in attempt to take out the ship from the inside while the others attack from outside. And if they happen to get some interesting information by any means necessary while they're at it? All the better.

They both land, lions kicking up dust where they alight on the wind-torn planet, paws on bare rock where anything but stone has been stripped away. It's decidedly desolate, and as Keith emerges from Red, buffeted by the hot gusts, the world flares up around him, echolocation set off by the dust in the breeze. He can barely make out the shape of Green through it all—a slightly louder patch of sight against the too-busy backdrop of his surroundings.

“Welcome aboard,” Pidge chirps as Keith comes up behind them, getting a grip on the back of Pidge's seat before their erratic flying can toss him across the cockpit. “Please keep all hands, feet, ears, and claws in the lion at all times.”

Keith snorts.

“Okay, seriously though, don't freak when I turn on the cloaking. It's supposed to scatter sound waves, too, and I'm not sure if it works inside. I promise I won't eject you into space, so if you think you're flying on nothing, it's _just the cloaking_.” Pidge fiddles with a few controls, and then they're taking off again.

“Got it,” Keith says, holding a little tighter to the pilot seat. Red hums encouragement to him.

And then everything warps.

Keith feels like he's twelve again, still new to earth, and Shiro had just shown him a kaleidoscope for the first time. He'd been amazed at the things these foreign creatures could create—for all the defenselessness of their bodies, they were resourceful, magical in their imagination. Now reminds him of that same awestruck moment, except significantly more terrifying because the floor where he knows he's standing now sounds like it's somewhere to his right, and where his hands dig into the pilot seat now hums from behind him. Pidge is sitting on nothing.

“Nope,” Keith grits out. “Nope, nope. Do not want.”

“Just hold on,” Pidge tells him, low and focused. “Almost there. Hey, are you and Lance really okay?”

Keith is a bit taken aback by the question—perhaps Pidge is trying to distract him from emptiness swirling beneath his feet, especially when Green veers sharply to the right. “I hope so,” he grinds out, and resists the urge to fling himself onto what he perceives to be the nearest flat surface: a diagonal across the upper right side of his vision, which he is _mostly_ sure is not actually the floor.

Pidge lets out a thoughtful hum, then, somber: “I hope so, too. Hold on. Going in.”

Keith tries to bite down on the undignified yelp as Green dives, but he's not entirely sure he succeeds.

Other than that, they land without trouble. No alarms ring, nothing seems out of place, but Keith can't actually see beyond the distorted walls of Green's cockpit so that's not saying much. Pidge hops out of the pilot seat without much care, hurrying out, but pauses to look curiously over their shoulder when Keith doesn't move.

“So,” he starts slowly. “The floor looks like it's somewhere above me? I'm kind of afraid of moving.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Pidge huffs, laughter laced in their tone. They grab at Keith's arm, peeling him from where he clutches as the pilot seat, and he takes a dizzying step into _nothing_ after them, only to be met with solid ground. It's disorienting and he anticipates every next movement to be the last before he tumbles out into space, but somehow he manages to get outside and then he can, for the most part, ignore the vague blob of scattered waves that is Green.

“Can you get anything?” Pidge asks quietly, “It safe to cut?”

“Move like two feet to your left,” Keith instructs, barely able to make out the vague shape of a hallway under the position he guides Pidge to. Pidge pulls something from a bag at their hip, motions for Keith to step in closer. There's a moment of terse silence as Pidge draws something out around both of them, leaving space where Keith had pointed out, and then suddenly they're trapped in a bubble of some sort, intended to keep the air in the ship from vacuuming out into space and causing havoc.

Pidge casts Keith a wicked grin, and then their bayard strikes hard against the metal surface of the Galra ship.

“Huh,” they say when they've carved out a circle large enough for both of them to slip through. “Nothing new,” Pidge hums, gesturing with their bayard. “Bummer. After you?”

Keith shrugs. “Maybe it takes some time,” he says, and drops down through the hole.

He lands harder than he intends, and stumbles back to give Pidge room to follow, ears twitching against the confines of his helmet as he reaches as far as he can in either direction down the hallway, trying to sense oncoming danger.

Pidge is far more graceful as they plop down beside Keith, bayard out and at the ready.

“Which way?”

Pidge shrugs. “Control room? Probably at the front.”

“You two in?” Shiro's voice crackles over the comms in their helmets.

“Just got here,” Pidge says.

“Don't worry about us,” Keith says. “Just go have your fun.”

“Fun?” Hunk squeaks. “I'm distracting a cannon!”

“Hunk, you'll be fine,” Keith hums.

“Stay safe,” Shiro says, and then the comms click off.

Keith feels the strain of Lance's bond, coiled tight with concern.

 _I'm safe_ , he says.

The coil winds tighter.

“Let's go,” says Pidge, and Keith draws back from the bond in order to focus ahead of him, trailing after the green paladin.

It's not long before they run into a patrol of drones, and they have to duck against the indent of a doorway to avoid being seen.

There's a moment where they both hold their breaths, and then as Keith's sighing out his relief, his vision catches on the camera pointed directly at them, and all he manages is a quiet “Oh, fuck,” before the droids are whirling on them.

Pidge shoots forward first, managing to hit one of the drones with their taser before either side has a chance to move in. Keith reaches for his bayard, feels it thrum to life under his fingers and splits the weight between each hand. Without second thought, Keith summons the shield on his arm guard to block a shot of laser fire, and then surges upwards, hook swords crossed over each other, to catch the blade of a spear before it can get anywhere close to Pidge.

Pidge blinks at him as he tosses the spear away, drone falling backwards with the force of it. “Damn,” they breathe. “You weren't kidding.”

Keith grunts a response, latches one of the hooks around the drone's leg to send it sprawling. Pidge aims her bayard, fires the grappling hook into the droid's neck until it fries.

The last of the patrol aims its gun at Keith, and he ducks, rolling across the floor. For a moment, he feels weightless, and then he's barreling into the drone's side, knocking it off balance just as it fires.

He hears Pidge yelp from behind him, and then the sound of their shield flaring up—fuck—hopefully they made it in time. Keith's too focused on what's in front of him to decipher a clear image of Pidge. Keith shoulders the gun out of the way, darting in close to the drone, and hooks the ends of his swords over its head. With a sharp tug, the swords _shnkk_ free, and the drone's head falls to the ground with a hard thud right after its body.

Panting, Keith whirls. “Are you good?”

“Holy shit,” Pidge breathes, wide-eyed. They must have thrown both hands up to brace against the hit, but now their shield is gone and their hands are fogged from Keith's vision as their bayard shifts. “So, this is new?”

“Yours split, too,” Keith observes, and then whirls to face down the hallway as he hears footsteps. “Hide! In here!”

Pidge sends him a quick nod as Keith jams his one of his swords in the crack in the door they'd pressed up against earlier—it's some sort of storage room from what he can tell, but he's not certain—and uses the leverage to pry it open. The doors give, keypad crackling aggressively for a moment, and then Keith is pushing Pidge into the cramped room.

“Holy fuck, I'm _Wolverine_ ,” Pidge breathes as Keith ducks in after them, shoulder pressed against the door to hold it closed.

“What?” he hisses, reaching his vision as best he can through the crack. The soundwaves are faint, too few to grasp a full view, but he can at least keep guard.

Something clinks, metal on metal, in front of Keith, and he allows Pidge to distract him for a heartbeat: their right hand is covered from elbow to knuckles in a thick material, over—or maybe melded to?—their armor. Their left hand has only a brace over their wrist, presumably to not interfere with the shield built into the paladin armor there. But the highlight is this: over the back of each palm protrudes three blades, or at least that's what Keith presumes them to be. Pidge turns over their arms, inspecting the new bayard transformation and grinning wickedly under their helmet.

“ _Wolverine_ ,” they say, a little awed. “The old comic books. Matt loved 'em—loves. Matt loves them.”

“Right, whatever— _shh_ ,” Keith growls, thunking them lightly on the head with the flat of his sword, and then turns back to focus through the door.

“Is that a prisoner?” Pidge whispers, suddenly peering around Keith, shoving their head under his arm to squint through the crack.

“No—” he hisses, catching the way the guards making their way towards them walk perfectly straight, the way their form remains exact, even as they patrol. The mix of drones and Galra soldiers makes it obvious too—and if not that, the squared shoulders, set jaw, haughty expression of the person in the midst of the escort. “It's an entourage.”

“ _Seriously_?” Pidge squeaks, and Keith growls low enough to warn them to _shut the fuck up_. Their jaw clamps shut with a soft click.

Keith holds his breath.

Long hair, held back by a high ponytail, flicks across broad shoulders. Pointed ears twitch, and Keith thinks he catches the gaze of whatever important visitor this is, but the patrol continues walking.

Pidge lets out a shuddering breath. “Was he _Altean_?”

“What?” Keith eases the doors open. “He was—Galran—I'm pretty sure.”

“He had markings. Like Allura.”

Keith feels his brow furrow of its own accord. “Well—shit, I don't know.”

Pidge looks him over for a moment, and then their gaze flicks past him, in the direction the escort had gone. “Split?”

“Split. You take the control room?”

“Got it.”

“Be careful.”

“You too.”

“For Lance.”

Keith sucks in a breath. “He's scared for you,” Pidge says, and then they dart in the opposite direction.

Keith takes a deep breath, pretends he can breathe in the scent of Lance for a moment, and not the clinical emptiness of the Galra ship, hints of machinery and torment singeing his nose.

With the next breath, Keith is slipping after the escort, steps quick but quiet as possible as he tries to catch up. He can still see them, a leisure but steady pace in the distance, and Keith's heart pounds against his ribs as he tails them. He reaches, focuses on the center of the entourage. He can't see the Altean markings Pidge mentioned, but he can recognize the resemblance in other aspects: the elegant flow of limbs; the tall stance, towering over the accompanying soldiers; and the formal lilt of his voice, lightness in his laugh that's uncommon for Galra.

Suddenly a few of the soldiers break away, and Keith flattens against the wall, praying he's not seen. It doesn't matter in the end—the Galra slip into another room. Keith waits for the rapid pulse of his blood in his ears to slow before he resumes his quiet stalking.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Pidge's voice hisses to life over the comms.

“I'm getting into the control room,” they report, and there's the sound of crackling tech.

“Keep alert,” Keith warns, slowing as another group of guards slip away from the escort and disappear into the inner bowels of the ship. “I might actually be looping back to you. I've been trailing for a while.”

Suddenly there's a loud _pop_ , and frenzied moment ahead of Keith as the last of the guards rushes forward.

He hears Pidge curse, something about a blackout.

“Well, now,” comes a welcoming drawl, and Keith readies his swords. “Aren't you a prize for the Empire? The prodigal son returns. Again.”

Keith feels his blood run cold, and Red thrums warning against his chest.

“It's good to finally meet you. I've been dying to, since Father mentioned you.”

Keith fights the growl rising in his throat, swallows the bile at the stranger's saccharine smile, sharp canines at the ready.

“My, how rude. You don't recognize your commanding officer. I'm Lotor, heir to the Galran Empire, and it may do you well to remember as such.” He reaches for his waist, draws out a curved blade, tilts the point of the scimitar in Keith's direction lazily. His gaze darts to the hilt and then drawing along the sword until it lands on Keith again.

And then he bows, all regal, all show.

Keith feels sick to his stomach. It reminds him of Lance.

Keith opens his mouth to reply, tries to draw some scalding retort, anything to get Lotor out of his head, but the words ring uselessly against his skull. And then Lotor flicks a hand up, and Keith is thrown past him, landing hard against the floor as he skids down the hallway.

He feels the claw marks under his suit strain, pain lacing across his skin.

Panic blares against his mind, raw and _Lance_.

Lotor raises his hand and a brow, an amused smirk lingering on his lips.

Keith scrambles up, ignoring the screeching in his head from both Lance and Red, ignoring the pain blossoming across his shoulder and side, ignoring the broken cackle from behind him as he bolts for the doors at the end of the hallway.

He slams against them. They dent against his weight. The impact reverberates through his bones.

Keith jabs his sword through them, hears a muffled noise from the other side, and flings the doors open.

He jerks forward, and then freezes, face millimeters from the tips of Pidge's claws as they stab through the neck of a Galra commander. For a swift, comical moment, Keith takes in the scene: one of his swords through the Galra's gut, glancing off Pidge's shield when they just managed to stop themselves from being stabbed, and Keith, breath cooling against the metal of the blades he almost impaled himself on.

“Sorry?” Pidge gasps out in surprise.

“Run!” Keith squeaks, twisting his sword and dragging it sideways out of the body of the Galra commander. Pidge lets out a squeak, pulling their arm back, and whirls in the other direction.

Keith pounds after them, the sound of Lotor's laugh ringing in his ears.

“You brought a friend.”

The ship shakes with an impact. Anger flares against Keith's heart, all-consuming, worthy of a red paladin, and not the blue one he knows it originates from. _I'm safe_ , he tries to tell Lance, but it more likely comes out as a fuzzy mental once-over of his own body, making sure all his limbs are still in place.

Suddenly the control room falls in on itself, the ceiling pouring down with molten lava. Almost cheerful, Red sticks her head in gaping hole, opens her mouth to catch Keith and Pidge as the vacuum sucks them upwards.

“And you brought a peace offering, too. How thoughtful,” Lotor hums, even as he's swept out into the void. As Keith tumbles into the cockpit, he sees Lotor lift a hand, steady himself against seemingly nothing—Red's mindscape takes over, and this time Keith sees the stream of Altean magic flowing from his fingers.

Red hesitates, tugging against Keith. Only for a moment. Everything shifts out of perspective for a split-second, the stars fading into something far brighter, like moonlight.

Lotor grins, sends Keith a swift wave, and then raises his hand and speeds back into the Galra ship, disappearing into the wreckage before Keith can get Red to fire another shot.

“What the fuck,” Pidge says.

“I don't know,” Keith breathes, still a little stunned. His skin crawls. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”

“Eject me over there,” Pidge instructs, pointing. “Green will meet us there.”

Keith takes a steadying breath, feels the controls rumble with a purr, and does as he's told.

 

 

 

As soon as they're back at to the castle, Red spits Keith out, flinging him in the general direction of the castle doors, or at least the general direction of Black, and then she bolts, going to dance around Blue like an excited puppy.

“Wow, real nice,” Keith grumbles, even though his lion can read his mind long before he forms coherent words. Keith floats idly towards the Castle of Lions, arms crossed over his chest. “You're such an ass!” he shouts at Red, and his lion flicks her tail dismissively at him.

Blue is a little more helpful, dumping Lance at the doors before turning tail and bowling Red over with her size. Something has the two of them excited, but at least Blue has the decency to not leave her paladin floating through space.

Keith hears Shiro's laughter through his helmet, and then Black is swooping him into their mouth, carting Keith into the hangar. “Any idea what's gotten into them?” Shiro asks as Keith stumbles into the cockpit.

“No clue. Red's just a bitch sometimes.”

“Hey, don't be rude,” Shiro scolds.

Keith huffs at the soft frown on his face. “You didn't just get kicked out into space by your lion.”

“Not this time,” Shiro quips, and it's then Keith remembers that the other paladin has just as much snark as the rest of them. He's just better at keeping it under control.

He must look as disgruntled as he feels because Shiro glances over his shoulder and fails to hold in a laugh.

Keith just crosses his arms as Black settles, and then he's stumbling out of Shiro's lion, into the castle, with full intent to find Lance, quell the panic still rising in his veins.

Something dark twists in Keith's gut, and he realizes maybe this is why Red and Blue bolted: they don't want to be anywhere near the crossfires of whatever is about to happen. He feels it in his bones, the way trepidation settles of its own accord, makes his hands shake as he tugs off his helmet. He finds Lance doing similarly in the armor room, dropping his helmet to the floor near the case. His bayard clatters down soon after.

“L-Lance—” Keith manages, barely a whisper when the anger affronts him so harshly, buffeting against his skin. It simmers in the room.

“I don't want to hear it,” Lance growls.

Keith feels guilt build in his chest, a temper to the fury thrumming off Lance.

“Lance, please—” Keith pleads. He steps closer to Lance as the blue paladin rips his chestplate off, lets it fall with resolution to the ground. “I'm sorry—”

“No,” Lance interrupts sharply, whirling. “No, you really aren't.” He slams his palm, fingers splayed out, on his chest hard enough that Keith winces in reaction. “I can feel it. I can't—you're not sorry. You're just pissed.”

Keith's ears flatten against his head, shame and hurt dragging them down. “I—Lance, that's _you—_ I'm—it was just me and Pidge, and I was careful—and...”

Lance blinks at him, almost stumbles backwards with a disgruntled, confused expression on his face. “Wait—It's—it's me?”

“You can't feel it?” Keith asks. His voice sounds small, even to his own ears. “You... can't tell the difference, can you?” The thought sends pain, stabs to Keith's heart, for reasons he can't quite decipher. He'd always thought they were twin stars, that Lance had known him completely, even before they mated, and yet—and yet... Keith sucks in a watery breath.

Lance looks shocked for a moment more, and then his gaze hardens. “I—I don't believe you. It's not me. It can't be me—it's so... foreign.”

Keith meets his eyes, sees the panic, the uncertainty there, hidden under determination, wishes he could will it all away. “I'm not—don't you trust me? I wouldn't lie—”

“Do you trust _me_?” Lance bites out. Low, precise. His words hold the weight of that which is lost in translation between them, all the misguided pain, unintentional hurt.

Keith nods stiffly, lips pressed tight together because he feels like he'll crack if he does anything else. He pulls in a deep breath through his nose. “You know I do. You should. You should know.”

Lance brushes off the last comment. “Give me your headband.”

Keith balks slightly, stuttering out, “W-what?”

Lance steps closer, and Keith can't bring himself to back away. Keith is selfish. Lance is angry. But he doesn't deserve—Lance's hands are gentle as they pry the echolocation device from Keith's ears, soft as they brush against his cheek.

“L-Lance,” Keith chokes out, and feels tears well in the corners of his eyes, both from the sudden emptiness and the emotions Lance is throwing at him, violent and writhing, dark. “Lance, _please_ ,” Keith pleads, reaching wildly for Lance and stumbling when he connects with nothing. “D-don't do this.”

He tries to follow Lance's footsteps, falls to his knees when he trips over his own helmet—hell, he'd forgotten he'd even dropped it.

Lance lets out a sound akin to a growl.

Away, away, away. His footsteps fade.

Keith is alone.

 

 

 

Keith feels empty. Yet somehow, everything is too much at the same time.

He pulls his legs more tightly against his chest, burying his head in the crook between his knees. Everything is almost blissfully muffled by the blanket wrapped around him, holding his ears close to his head. He'd stumbled from the armor room to his to retrieve the blanket and then settled himself in front of Lance's door, locating it by scent alone. He's somehow avoided the rest of the team—or perhaps they were avoiding him, wary of the blow-up after his fight with Lance.

Fight. Was it even that? He's not sure.

All he knows is the roiling emotions in his chest aren't his, but apparently Lance doesn't claim them either, and yet... They hurt as if they're the pain of a mate.

He doesn't cry, though he's fought back tears for however long he's been sitting here. It's late, he thinks, but Keith honestly has no clue what time it is. Does it matter?

He lets out a soft sniffle, a low whine from his core, and reaches for Lance again. Such a short distance between them, only the thin castle walls, a blanket, maybe two, but Keith is slammed back with the force of a monsoon, rejected. Again.

Every time, he's not sure if the new pang of distress is from him or Lance, or just the bond between them crying out to be spared this torture.

Keith doesn't regret it, he tells himself. He doesn't. But something nags at him—that maybe he was too hasty, that he rushed into this. That he misread Lance, the situation, how Lance felt. That Lance doesn't care for him the way he thought, and he's set himself up for failure from the start.

And with that, the guilt and potential heartbreak settling over him like a second skin, Keith finally lets the tears fall.

“Hey,” comes a soft voice, and Keith resists the urge to jump because he's already too used to echolocation, and he's forgotten to listen for the cues of others approaching. He tugs the blanket further over his head, hiding his ears. He doesn't want them to know—

The sounds are muffled, but Keith hears Shiro settle next to him. He doesn't bother wiping away the tears still occasionally slipping down his cheeks (if Shiro can even see them with the blanket in the way) because Shiro's seen them all before, seen the worst as a product of nightmares and memories. There's a soft touch to his shoulder, comforting and kind.

“You okay?” Shiro asks.

“Nope,” Keith says, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice as he incongruously pops the 'p.'

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says after a moment.

“What?”

“For attacking you. You didn't—you didn't deserve that,” he manages. His voice is soft, uncertain in a way he only allows around Keith.

Keith gives a halfhearted snort, caustic as a defense mechanism. “That was ages ago.”

“Just hear me out? I don't want this weighing on us. On me, at least,” Shiro huffs. There's a weary sigh. “I always suspected—”

“I know,” Keith says, quietly contemplative. “You knew something was off. I found the records too, about the Eris mission, missing humans.”

“I wasn't fair to you,” Shiro states. “We spent years together. You're like a brother to me, and I let something as trivial as this get to me—and I know, you'd say it's not trivial because I was hurt too, but...”

Keith shrugs, displacing the blanket some and scrambling to clutch at it so it stays over his frame. His heart pounds warily. “I'm not in the mood to argue, actually, so if you're looking for validation, go ask Hunk.”

“Sorry,” Shiro says. “I'm—I just... I want to apologize and make sure you know that even though I freaked out, you being Galra doesn't change the fact that I raised you for four years.”

“If I remember correctly, you occasionally remembered to buy cereal for me and most of the time left it up to the Garrison.”

“I got you into the Garrison,” Shiro huffs.

“I think I have Matt to thank for that, actually,” Keith retorts. “He's the one who faked the records.”

“You have to be feeling better if you're arguing with me.”

“No. It fucking hurts.” His voice cracks half-way through.

Shiro lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh. “You two will work it out. You always do.”

Keith makes a noncommittal noise, drops his head against his knees again, and lets a sob shake his body. Shiro rests a hand against his shoulder blade, smooths it over the fabric of the blanket. It's almost soothing—except that it makes Lance's emotions so much more poignant in comparison, and Keith flinches away.

“Sorry—” Shiro starts.

Keith fights the hiss rising in his throat, and it comes out as a choked gasp of air. “It's—I can't—”

“My fault,” Shiro says. “I'm going to get you some water, okay?”

“Just leave it here when you get back,” Keith mumbles into a corner of the blanket, pulling it over himself enough that he feels the edge touch down on his legs, a ball of contained hurt.

“You better drink it. You need it.”

“I will,” Keith promises.

Shiro's footsteps fade, echoing down the hallway, echoing in Keith's mind like the pain of losing Lance.

He does, eventually, drink the glass of water Shiro brings, but even that makes him feel sick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Violence, A Single Handjob, Wolverine


	11. Night Eleven

“ _...Things that are, things that were, and some things that have not yet come to pass.”_

\- _Lord of the Rings:The Fellowship of the Ring_ (2001)

 

A gentle rocking draws Keith from the ignorant bliss of unconsciousness. He's instantly hit by a wave of lingering anger, harsh betrayal, _distrust_. It wrenches a hiss from his throat, raw and vehement.

“Whoa, shh, _shh_ ,” Hunk soothes from somewhere above his ear. Everything is warm.

It occurs to Keith he's being carried.

“Sorry, I was trying not to wake you up,” Hunk says, voice gravelly with sleep. “I got up to get some water and saw you passed out in front of Lance's door... And I know you probably wanted to stay—but, like, you really would be upset about the ache in your back tomorrow? I was gonna take you to the couch because I know you don't like people in your space and stuff, but do you want to go to your room instead?”

Keith feels the words swim in his head, barely processing. He wants to protest on principle alone: he should stay near Lance, prove his affection with incessant pining, and maybe Lance will have him back. But the thought wears down on him, like wind against a mountaintop, and Keith decides maybe he's allowed to at least wallow in self-pity on the couch rather than the floor.

Besides the crick in his neck is already painful.

“Couch is fine,” he mumbles, instinctively curling against Hunk's body in search of warmth. He's still wrapped in the blanket, thank God, though he might be able to play it off as not keeping the headband on when he sleeps. Hunk might believe him.

But he would hate lying to him, just the way any false words to the others settles poorly with his morals. White lies to strangers, Keith can get away with, but here, with the team, with his _friends_ , the repercussions bear down on him.

“Okay, then,” Hunk murmurs. Keith feels himself be jostled slightly as Hunk's pace quickens, and then he's presumably being lowered down onto the couch.

The blanket slips.

Keith's blood runs cold. He scrambles for it, diving under the corner he throws over himself, curling against the back cushions to hide from Hunk.

But Hunk just settles a hand on Keith's shoulder in a soft pat. “You want anything?”

Keith tries to still his pounding heart, feels Lance's pain waltz across his soul. “W-water?”

“I'll be right back, then,” Hunk says, and Keith listens until his footsteps fade before he allows himself to breathe.

When Hunk returns, Keith feels the couch sink as he sits nearby. “Here,” he offers.

Keith fumbles with the blanket, trying to reach a hand out. Snags his claws on the fabric a couple of times before he finds the cool of the midnight air.

Hunk rests the glass in Keith's palm.

Keith slowly lifts himself up, taking care to keep the blanket tucked around him.

There's a silence that Keith doesn't know how to react to, so he sips at his drink, letting the cool liquid temper the increasingly sickening feeling simmering in his heart.

He hears Hunk take in a deep breath, and Keith tenses.

But the voice he questions with is soft: “Keith, I... Are you and Lance okay?”

Keith swallows the lump in his throat, and despite the water, croaks out, “I don't know.”

There's a clink of glass as Hunk must set his own cup down on the floor. “Are _you_ okay?”

This isn't Shiro, not the man who helped Keith through the trauma of being one of the Empire's toys, Keith tells himself, and yet, regardless, he finds himself answering: “No.” This is Hunk, his teammate and his friend and the kindest, most loving person Keith knows.

And beyond that, he finds himself blurting out: “He took my headband.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, and Keith wishes he could take it back. This is his fault. He deserves it. It's not the team's problem, and certainly not Hunk's.

“Your echolocation thing?” Hunk asks, sounding a little concerned, but nothing close to the shock Keith was expecting.

Keith nods, and then realizes he has no idea if Hunk can see him. “Yeah. I-I don't know what he did with it.” He's surprised at the steadiness of his own voice, if a little hoarse.

Hunk seems to be processing for a moment. “That's not cool,” he finally says, and then his voice pitches up with worry. “Like seriously. That's not right. I know Lance can get... Well, Lance, right? But this isn't him. He's a dick sometimes, but he's not _mean_.”

“I d-don't know what's w-wrong,” Keith chokes out, and drinks some water to help swallow the sob catching in his throat. He tips back the glass, runs out before he can stop the tears.

Swiping furiously at his cheeks with the back of one hand, Keith tries to set the cup down on the ground, but it slips through shaking fingers. It clunks gratingly into the quiet, drowning out the soft hiccup Keith tries to breathe through.

“There's got to be something up. He might be mad about something, but he wouldn't do this to you Keith. I'll ask him tomorrow,” Hunk assures.

“Don't!” Keith squeaks, a stutter of movement for a moment before he settles into a ball on the couch. “Please—I... Don't...”

“Keith, really—you should talk to him at least.”

“Been trying,” Keith mumbles dejectedly.

“Well, then, I can help Pidge make you another—”

“No!” The sound bites out more aggressively than Keith intends, but it's too late to take it back now. “No, just... Please don't tell anyone? I need... Time to adjust. It'll be fine. It's fine. I'm fine.”

The words echo hollowly into the room.

He's sure Hunk can hear the fake undercurrents in them.

Hunk takes a deep breath. “Okay. If that's... Okay, Keith. I trust you.”

 _I trust you_.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Keith answers, running over Hunk's previous words in his head. They stick like thistles, stinging painfully in contrast to the ache in his bones.

“Okay. Goodnight, then, Keith.”

The couch shifts as Hunk gets up—the clink of glasses as he collects them from the ground. Keith lets himself lean back against the couch, still curled into a pathetic ball.

He hurts for Lance. He hurts for himself, the guilt of driving Lance to this point.

But. _I trust you_. What Lance couldn't bring himself to—

Maybe Hunk is right, a tiny part of him says.

 

 

 

Keith hovers on the other side of the training room door. He presumes he's the last one here, at least out of the functioning paladins because Lance refuses to leave his room still, and Shiro will probably chew him out for it, but Keith can't really bring himself to care. It's been hell wandering around the castle without his echolocation and without Lance to guide him. He's stayed mostly to the living quarters, hiding in his room, where he'd slunk off to when he woke at some ungodly hour on the couch.

Hunk, the lifesaver, brought some food to his room this morning, and Keith managed to keep a bit of it down.

But when Allura called for the paladins to come to training, Keith had to accept the fact he could only stay huddled in a ball on his bed for so long, and by now the festering blaze of emotions in his gut had him itching to punch something. Because while maybe he couldn't deal with emotions or feelings, he at least might be able to tire himself out and get some rest that isn't plagued by nightmare versions of Lance, or worse, almost, nightmare versions of himself, Galran and malicious.

Now that he's here, Keith hesitates. He hears voices from the other side of the door, counts them off in his head.

One: “Holy shit, what's that?” Pidge squeals.

Two, Allura: “I figured since the other paladins seem to be getting upgrades, it might be time for Shiro to earn one, too.”

Hunk, three: “Shiro works the hardest out of all of us.”

Soft, awed, Shiro speaks last: “This is... for me?”

“Yes,” Allura hums. “Keith told me you formerly used one on Earth, and I had one of my staffs adjusted.”

Keith presses his hands against the door, slips inside the room as quietly as possible and presses against the wall in order to try and keep his bearings around him. He finally pieces together what must be happening—Allura had been planning to give Shiro a monk spade for a while now, after asking Keith about Shiro's hobbies back home.

Even now, Keith remembers the fluidity with which Shiro moved while working through the weapon's form. He'd always wanted to try it—to somehow master the staff, curled into a crescent blade on one end and weighed with a flat shovel on the other—but it'd been too heavy for him to wield. Still, it had convinced him to get Shiro to train him in martial arts.

Part of him longs for a simpler time.

But his entrance doesn't go unnoticed, and Shiro huffs, “Keith!”

And then he hears swift footsteps, not running but hurried, and Shiro's wrapping him in warmth that has him aching for more comfort. Shiro's not Lance—not his mate, and not a replacement, but damn if Keith isn't going to soak up as much consolation as he can from the familiar hug.

“Thank you,” Shiro breathes, and Keith melts against him, feeling the weariness of the past day drag on his muscles.

“You should thank Allura,” Keith mumbles into Shiro's shoulder. “She did all the work.”

“Yeah, but it's less awkward if I hug you.”

Keith barks out a broken laugh. “Right.”

“What happened to your headband?” Shiro's hand brushes over one of Keith's ears carefully as he pulls away.

Keith bites his lip, ducks his head away quickly, almost a flinch, feels ice dance down his spine. “Did... Didn't feel like wearing it?”

“Are the headaches getting any better?” Pidge pipes in from somewhere behind Shiro.

“Yeah,” Keith mutters, taking some relief in the fact he wasn't instantly called out in the lie. At least Hunk is on his side. He shrugs, hoping it comes off as nonchalant, but his limbs feel too heavy and his movements too stiff.

Then, betrayal, but not from who he expects.

“Have you spoken to Lance?” Allura asks casually. She doesn't mean to pry, he knows. He knows it's concern, especially with the fact they're mates, and if anyone else in the room was going to know the pain of heartbreak like Keith feels, it would be Allura, who's seen it firsthand before the Galra turned on the Alteans.

“Not... No, I haven't.” He lets the words fall to the floor, weights on his shoulders, on his heart.

Shiro rests a hand on his shoulder, human and kind. “You sure you don't want to grab your echolocation device? We're doing hand-to-hand today. It'd be a shame for you not to get the practice in.”

“I'll—um... Go without it,” Keith decides, and suppresses the shudder at the thought alone. He's blind—useless— _vulnerable_. That's what love does. Makes one weak in places one wouldn't expect. And Keith's made a mistake with who he's trusted with that power, it seems.

He clings to a fragile hope, holds the tatters of the rope bonding him and Lance with the gentlest of claws, so worried that their sharpness might be the end of it all.

“Well, I mean, I guess we can't always assume Keith's gonna have his headpiece, right?” Hunk jumps in, and Keith feels himself swell with appreciation for the yellow paladin. Thank God for all the Hunks of the world, not that there's anyone else who can compare.

“Good point, Hunk,” Shiro says, and gives Keith's shoulder a harsh pat, somewhere between gently caring and a rousing encouragement. “You okay with this?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, tries to keep the waver out of his voice. “Sure.”

Shiro claps his hands together. “Okay, since we're missing Lance, Hunk and Pidge, you two pair up, and I'll work with Keith. Unless—Princess, would you like to join us?”

“I'm fine,” Allura hums, sounding more distant than when Keith last heard from her. “I'll watch.”

“Good,” Shiro replies, and then, softer, curious and a bit timid: “Perhaps you'd be willing to spar with me later to work with the staffs?”

Pidge snorts. “Whose staff, exactly?”

Keith isn't sure if Shiro didn't hear the comment or if he's just doing a very good job of ignoring it.

“Of course, Shiro,” Allura replies, the sound of a smile brightening her tone.

Shiro lets out a breath, and Keith wonders if he realized he was holding it. He follows Shiro's footsteps as the he moves across the training room—a little too closely apparently, because he bumps his nose into Shiro's back when the black paladin stops a little short.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, but Keith's still close enough to feel the chuckle rumble through him. “You absolutely sure about this?”

“It's fine,” Keith says, far more curt than he intends. “Hunk is right. I need the practice like this.”

“If you think so,” Shiro says, though he sounds a little skeptical, and his voice drifts a bit further away. “Ready up.”

Keith drops into a lower stance, hands up defensively. His limbs are almost uncooperative, straining against the scared, rapid beating of his anticipatory heart, but he wills himself to remain still, ears flicked towards Shiro. Keith waits for the rush of air, the ghost of sound.

But Keith is hit by silence, at least until the blow thuds against the brace of his arms, protecting his face and chest but leaving a sharp arch of impact against his forearm where Shiro's leg just connected. Keith tries to move back with the blow, allow the shift of his body to absorb some of the force of the hit, but he's too slow. Shiro's kick is already retracted, too quick for Keith to react.

“Sorry,” Keith grits out, rubbing at his arm, and then slipping back into position.

“My fault,” Shiro says. “Should've gone easier on you.”

“Just go.” Keith focuses, locks down on the sound of Shiro's movements, the rustle of clothes, the harshness of breath.

The next hit is a little slower, and Keith manages to raise an arm in a block before it gets anywhere near him. And then, while his arm is up, Shiro ducks in, drives a hand against Keith's side, landing painfully over the scratch marks from two days ago.

Keith sucks in air, biting his lip to keep from whimpering. “Thought... you said you were going to go easy?”

“You're not up for this,” Shiro says sternly, a harsh breath between them. Shiro's still close—and then he's not. Keith feels the heat of his body leave, curving away, and then feels the brush of pressure against the back of his leg.

Well, fuck.

He tries, _tries_ , to get out of the impeding take-down, but Shiro is determined and even Keith's flailing is not enough to save him. He lands hard on his back, the air knocked out of him, and wheezes for breath on the training room floor.

“What's going on Keith?”

“What...” Keith pants, struggles to get his arms underneath him to prop him up.

“You're welcome to take the day off, you know. We realize you and Lance are dealing with some things, and you're still recovering from the other day, anyway.”

“I'm—it's fine,” Keith manages, sitting up. He runs a hand through his bangs absently, brushing them back from where they tickle against his temple, and his claws catch in the locks. With a pang of longing, Keith realizes that his hair is probably a rat's nest without Lance's usual gentle care. His chest tightens.

“On the other hand, if you're really upset about something, you'd be in here constantly, taking your emotions out on the training bots. But—you're not. So, what's going on?”

Keith feels his ears flatten back of their own accord, curses them for this betrayal of his feelings. Still, it can't hurt to try: “I'm fine. I just need the practice like this, okay?” He's snapping at Shiro and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to care.

“Do we need to talk about Lance? Is this really beating you up this much—Keith depression is a very serious thing and we need to be able to work with you—”

“I'm not—” Keith splutters. “I'm—We're having a fight, not breaking—”

“Lance took his headband,” Hunk blurts. “Like, hid it.”

Keith freezes.

There's a heartbeat of silence.

“ _What_?” Pidge hisses. After a moment, they breathe out, “You're not kidding. Keith, seriously?”

Keith's voice is small, solemn, when he replies, “Yes.”

“Keith,” Shiro's voice is close, makes Keith jump slightly. He feels himself deflate as Shiro runs a soothing touch down his spine. “Keith, I think you need to talk to Lance. This isn't good... This...” Shiro seems to be searching for words, or maybe he's lost in his own thoughts, drawn to his prosthetic in the same way Keith dwells on the analogy.

“He won't talk to me,” Keith says, though it comes out more pitiful, a whine. “I've tried, Shiro! I've tried.” Keith chokes on a whimper, and his voice turns dejected. “He won't let me in anymore. I don't know what I did wrong.”

“I...” Shiro starts, and then before he can finish, Keith interrupts.

“No—I do know. I was selfish and stupid but I don't know how to fix it.”

There's the sound of rustling fabric as Shiro settles, pulls Keith against his chest and runs his hands over his body in ghost touches of comfort. “What did you do exactly?”

“I ran off—during the banquet, and with Pidge on the mission—it's dangerous and I know it is and Lance doesn't want me to and I keep doing it anyway because I don't think. I don't _think_. I never do.”

“Keith,” Shiro levels. “You're reckless, but that doesn't warrant this reaction. Not something as manipulative as trying to keep you disabled.”

“I'm going to fucking ask him what bullshit he's trying to pull,” Pidge growls suddenly, and Keith hears the anger in their steps.

“Pidge, don't,” Keith gasps out. “H-his door is l-locked. I've tried.”

“As much as I do not condone invasions of privacy, the castle's main system has an override program for the living quarters,” Allura pipes in. Keith wonders vaguely what she thinks about this, if the age-old _I told you so_ is ringing in her head the way it worms sickeningly through Keith's thoughts.

“I _know_ ,” Pidge says. “I've hacked it before.”

Allura makes a spluttering noise that Keith only barely acknowledges.

“Pidge—no—if... If you're going to, let me t-talk to him.” Keith feels something well inside him, some tension from which there is no returning, and he feels the weight of it on his shoulders.

Pidge hums out a displeased huff, but concedes, “Fine. Get up. I'm pissed. We're doing this now.”

 

 

 

Shiro led him here, but now Keith is alone, standing in front of Lance's door. He presses a palm to the surface and tries to ground himself in the cool of the metal. There's a soft click from the keypad, or at least that's what Keith presumes made the noise, and he feels the door shift under his fingertips, hissing open.

Keith reaches for the frame, clings to it as he shuffles forward, just enough to be considered inside the room. “...Lance?”

“Here,” snarls a savage voice, and something thumps against Keith's chest. “That's what you came for, right? So you can run off more? Leave me in the fucking dust?”

Keith crouches slowly, pats on the ground until his claws tick against the material of his headband. He runs his fingers over it as he straightens, checking for dents and figuring out its orientation before he settles it against his ears.

The room pounds into clarity, leaving Keith's ears ringing and his head spinning for a moment. Lance is curled against the wall on his bed, glaring daggers at Keith.

“Lance, I...” Keith takes a tentative step forward, and Lance lets out a low sound like a growl. “I don't know what you want from me.”

“I want you to _get out_ ,” Lance spits.

“ _Why_?” Keith whines. “Why are you doing this? Why are you so mad? I don't—”

“Mad?” Lance hisses. “ _Mad_? You're the one who's always flooding me with your pissy thoughts! I'm just fucking worried about you, and then you just shove me out!”

“It's not me! I don't know what it is, but it's _not me_.”

“ _I didn't sign up for this_.”

Keith feels the words like a blow to his ribcage, cracking bones that have been fractured countless times and reforged through torment. And yet, somehow, these insignificant thoughts hurt just as much, just because of the meaning behind them, the way that Lance's entire body shakes with the outburst, the way tears start streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Keith takes a deep breath, feels it shudder through him. He braces himself against his own thoughts, dripping with the venom of his own rash actions. A snake, waiting to strike, except that Keith has somehow managed to bite himself and now the poison runs through his veins. “Lance, I'm sorry. There's only one way I can break it—but if this hurts you, actually does. I'm—I'll do it. And if I'm dead, you won't have an excuse to keep a handicap around. You'll find a new paladin. Someone better.”

Lance sucks in a breath, rattling in lungs. “I—Keith, no—I don't. I don't want that. I— _ugh_.” Lance groans, presses his hands against his temples and ducks his head as if in pain. “There you go again!” he accuses, and his voice turns flighty, panicky. “I don't get it!”

Keith rests his head against the door frame. He's tired. He wants Lance back. He misses his touch. He misses holding Lance's hand and pressing kisses to his knuckles. It's been two days and he's reduced to this longing mess, willing to do anything for Lance. But it's more than that, because this isn't just someone he loves, this is someone he's fallen _in love_ with, and who holds his fragile heart entirely in his hands. Who holds the constellation map to his soul, the only one who could read him inside out, translate the astrology of his being into existence in the breaths shared between them.

“Lance,” Keith bites out, harsher than he intended, and he takes a deep breath through his nose. “Do I look like I'm mad right now?”

“Well, now you do!” Lance growls. “I—fuck! I don't know, Keith! I don't—” His breath hitches, and his voice is tight as he continues. “Something's wrong—something—I don't—I need air.”

“There's only the castle,” Keith says quietly, but Lance hurries off the bed, brushing past Keith without a second glance.

Keith follows after him, footsteps weary after Lance's frantic movement.

They go to the place Keith exactly would expect. If not Keith, the only other being on the castle to understand Lance perfectly is Blue—and Lance rushes up to her like a soldier coming home.

And hits uselessly against the shield around his lion.

Lance is disgruntled for a moment, before he hits his fist against the force field surrounding Blue. “What the fuck, Blue?” he hisses, and bangs harder against the surface. “Let me in! I—I need—I don't know! Just let me in!”

Keith watches, unsure what to do. “Lance...” he calls, pleading. “We'll work through this. The others can help, even if you don't want me, and I think there's something up. Maybe I—maybe the mating bond isn't compatible with humans. Let's at least talk this out.”

Lance yells out a frustrated noise against the barrier, and then he's storming back towards Keith. “Yeah, yeah, real ironic that Mr. I'm-Too-Good-I'll-Run-Off-On-My-Own-All-The-Time wants to _talk_ now.”

Lance barrels past Keith's shoulder. “Lance—please, just. Tell me what's happening. I'm trying to help. Tell me what I'm doing wrong.”

“You're impossible,” Lance growls over his shoulder, stomping down the hallway. Keith hurries to catch up with him. “I can't deal with this, Keith. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks—there are dreams. Yours. Nightmares from the cells, and before, or something—I don't know. There's someone with white hair, and I—”

Lance pauses. He grinds the heel of his palms against his eyes, and then keeps walking.

“There are chains—” he breathes out. “And the druids, and they touch my back and I don't know—I hear them in my head and they talk and _talk_ and it never stops.”

Keith freezes. “Those aren't my memories, Lance.”

“Then whose are they?” Lance screeches, whirling on him. “They're certainly not mine! I grew up in Cuba with the sea and sunshine! I didn't ask for this! This is taking everything from me, Keith. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I see in the mirror every morning. And this fucking mating bond just... I don't know, but it's terrible. I feel like I can't breathe half the time. I'm losing myself and it's _terrifying_.”

“Lance—”

“No—No! I don't care if it's not you! I need space! I need to get the _fuck_ out of here,” Lance's gaze is wild as he spins in place and takes off running. Keith scrambles after him, but it takes a moment too long for him to realize where Lance is heading, and he's too late. Again.

Lance is in the escape pod before Keith can drag a new breath between his lips, and Lance is gone by the time he does.

 _Lance_ , Keith tries to call for him.

He's hit with a wave of panic so strong that it nearly sets off an attack of his own, entirely sympathetic in its origin.

And then something shatters. The pieces fall like clinking glass to the floor. It's not the mating bond, no. Keith still feels the tug of it in his blood. No, what falls, cracked and reflecting broken smiles, is Lance.

Keith is left holding onto nothing. His blood still runs in his own veins, coupled with Lance's, and yet—he feels like he's blind again, even though he can clearly see the hangar in front of him, minus one pod. Like the sight he misses, there's an aching emptiness that he's constantly reaching for but Lance...

Lance is gone.

 

 

 

All of Keith's movements have a flighty edge of uncertainty to them. He's being panicky and defensive, he knows, but he can't really control it right now. Red is sending him a constant stream of _something's wrong, something's wrong_ , but it doesn't make any difference because Keith fucking knows that already.

After staring into the void after Lance, he'd stumbled, feeling numb, into the lounge, leaned heavily against the door frame as he gasped out to the team, “H-he's gone.”

Pidge had flown into a fury, cursing Lance's name. They don't mean any of it, really, at least not any longer than in the moment, but they still vowed to chew Lance out the minute he got back. If he got back. Hope is a fickle being, teasing Keith with simple thoughts of a happy future while the despair thickens the air around them.

He's currently curled against Hunk, trying to draw some semblance of _okayness_ from the warmth of another human body while they wait for Shiro and Allura to return. Pidge is still stomping angrily around the room, pacing. Coran is lingering in the doorway, seemingly unsure if he wants to know what's wrong or if it's within his right to ask.

“Lance is gone,” Keith says into the room, quiet save for the sound of Pidge's footsteps and the occasional tap of Keith's claws against each other as he fidgets.

“Gone?” Coran echoes.

“He left. In one of the pods.” His tone is dry, unfeeling. It's a stark contrast to what's going on in his heart, but Keith's mind feels sluggish, too far behind the scenario to keep up.

Coran is uncharacteristically brief in his response. “Interesting.”

“I'm gonna kill him,” Pidge vows vehemently, pausing in their pacing to look at Keith with fire in their eyes.

“Allura and Shiro went to check out Blue,” Hunk explains, voice soft in comparison to the blaze of Pidge's declaration of vengeance.

“Well, if anyone can communicate with the blue lion other than Lance, it would be Allura. Alfor used to fly her, you know, and the lions tend to run in bloodlines.” Coran lets out a soft noise. “Though I suppose that has changed now that you all are here.”

Shiro pads into the room, opens his mouth to speak only to have the words stolen from him my Pidge, prompting an impatient, “Well?”

Shiro sends them a disapproving look. “Pidge, calm down. We'll get through this without any homicide on my watch, and that's an order.”

“So if you don't see it—”

“Stop that train of thought right there,” Shiro warns.

Pidge opens their mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it, instead crossing their arms defiantly over their chest and jutting their chin out at Shiro. Before their indignation can warrant any response, however, Allura returns, shoes sharp clicks against the floor.

There's a beat of silence. The others turn expectantly to the Princess, while Keith attempts to curl into a more pitiful ball, the consuming nothingness of the other end of the mating bond gnawing at him.

“Before I say anything,” Allura begins, a sense of breathlessness hinting on the edge of her voice, though Keith's not sure from where it stems. “Keith, I want you tell me everything you can about what's going on.”

“I don't know,” Keith whimpers out, and Hunk rubs calming circles on his back, occasionally letting his fingers brush up to the base of the fur on Keith's neck.

“Keith,” Shiro says. “Please. Try. If you can.” The last bit is tacked on the end, a thought that occurs to Shiro moments after he places himself in Keith's shoes, realizes the pain he might be going through. Keith isn't sure when or where Shiro acquired the habit, but this unending empathy is what made them such close friends in the first place. Because even before Shiro was captured, some part of him _understood_.

So, for him and for Lance, Keith tries. He takes a deep breath through his nose, attempts to steady the erratic pulse of his blood, still the shake in his hands. It doesn't work, but he begins speaking anyway. “Lance was upset. A-angry. It flared up whenever I did something stupid, so I assumed... that was why. B-but when we fought he said it wasn't him. He thought it was my end of the mating bond, but it wasn't and I don't know where it could have come from. He was... panicking a lot, too, I guess? I'm—I'm not sure.”

“Anything else?” Allura asks softly.

“Umm.” Keith feels his brow furrow, forcing himself to recall the arguments even though the memories are clouded in red and sorrow. “He said he had nightmares from my memories, but they weren't mine.”

Allura presses her lips together, and nods. “Well I may be able to explain the second part. The red and blue lions are far closer than I had previously presumed. I'm not sure if this is a reflection of your relationship with Lance or just their own bonding occurring over time, but I believe Red may have leaked some of her premonitions to Blue.”

“So that's—that's just Red that does that, right?” Keith hears himself ask.

“Only Red has the true ability for foresight,” Allura answers. “The others may have glimpses of it, prevalent in their bond with Red, though the black lion is especially adept at it despite not possessing the power directly.”

“Premonitions,” Pidge says. “You said premonitions. Foresight. Like, seeing the future?”

“Yes,” Keith and Allura say at the same time, which might have been amusing if not for the dampened mood of the entire room.

Pidge's gaze goes wide with shock, or perhaps excitement.

“That being said,” Allura continues before Pidge can squeak out any further response. “I believe that Lance may have been seeing his own future in those nightmares.”

 _Cells. Chains. Druids._ That's what Lance had said.

Keith whimpers, high and needy. “H-he's going to get captured b-by the G-Galra. They'll hurt him, _they'll hurt him_.”

“We have to get him back, then, right?” Hunk says.

“Yeah, so I can hurt him myself for leaving in the first place,” Pidge growls.

“Not helping, Pidge,” Shiro admonishes.

“He might not want to come back,” Allura says softly, and the room goes deadly silent.

“...What?” It's Pidge, stunned into quietness. “Why not?”

Keith hears Allura take in a breath, weary in the way he knows far too well, like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “From what I could gather from Blue, something in Lance was different since we rescued him. I... I presume either the trauma was too much, or—it has something to do with that implant.”

“I scanned it!” Pidge cries. “It wasn't a tracker!”

“Not a tracker—something different,” Allura says, and Pidge sucks in a soft gasp of breath. “I believe it may be something more manipulative. Something to turn Lance against us. Perhaps they had been intending on letting him go while the two of you were captured, and eventually Lance might provide them with information or return with the other paladins.”

“But I—” Pidge looks lost. “I d-didn't detect anything.”

“Did you check for anything else?” Allura asks. The question is simple, and her tone soft, but Keith can tell by the way Pidge recoils that they feel accusation in the query.

“I-I...” They stutter, stepping back from their earlier confrontational pose to twist their fingers together, unsure. “I didn't... I didn't think...” Pidge takes a breath, not meeting Allura's gaze, but then they look up, horror clear on their expression. “No, I didn't—oh, God, this is all my fault—”

Shiro takes two long strides, wraps Pidge tightly in his arms, chest catching the first tears that start to fall.

“Pidge, no,” Allura is quick to assure. “You did what you were asked to, and you did what you thought was best based on the information given. We... I don't think any of us suspected this.”

“O-okay...” Pidge sniffles.

Silence descends. Solemn. Almost absolute.

Keith can just barely hear Shiro whispering some soft praise to Pidge, but he doesn't strain to hear it, doesn't care to hear it. That's for them—for the two of them to share, and it's not Keith's place to intrude, especially when he has no kind words of his own to contribute. He feels too broken for that.

“So, we _are_ getting him back, right?” Hunk stresses. “No more sacrificing for the greater good? We agreed, didn't we? Promised to bring each other home?”

“Yes, Hunk,” Allura says. Her voice holds the weight of that promise, the bond of the team, the bond of family. It speaks volumes of her pain, of what she's lost, of what she may yet lose, and the lengths she'll go to in order to fight against that happening. “We're going to get Lance back. Keith, do you have any idea where he is?”

Keith shakes his head, buries it against his knees. “Nothing.” His lips brush against the fabric of his pants, too rough against the soft skin, too rough against his fragile heart. “The mating bond is... It's like Lance disappeared. It's just blank.”

Allura lets out a breath—a strong exhale that is as close as she'll ever get to an exasperated sigh in a scenario as serious as this one, because she knows how to school herself so the paladins don't misinterpret her exhaustion for anger. “Well. For now, all of you try to get some rest. I will go see if I can find anything else out from Blue and check the records we have of Galra experimentation, but I doubt anything is updated enough. Afterward... I guess we'll search for somewhere we might be able to get some information, either an ally or from a Galra ship. If worst comes to worst, I should be able to fly Blue confidently enough to form Voltron.”

Keith's gut twists painfully. He swallows the bile in his throat, breathes until he can promise himself he won't throw up. “The Valisi,” he says, a little breathy. “The Prince was mated to a half-breed. He might know something.”

“Thank you, Keith,” Allura hums. She brushes a hand over his head, fingers curling in his hair for a moment. As much as he'd like to appreciate the gesture, he can't help but hate the idea of it. It's not right without Lance, just as it's not right forming Voltron without Lance. “I'll be in Blue's hangar for the time being if anyone needs me. Everyone. Keith. Get some rest.”

Keith nods, leans against Hunk.

He doesn't sleep, only stays still, breaths slow and steady, and strains to chase slumber.

He feels the cavernous nothingness between him and Lance. He can't sleep, can't rest, not when Lance is out there alone and probably terrified.

Keith feels hollow.

Empty.

 

 

 

The day is languid, lazy in the drift of clouds across the sky, and Keith finds himself staring into the center of a yellow sun, warm against his skin, and this is how he knows it's all a dream. He doesn't remember falling asleep, and yet here he is, in the inevitable dreamscape. His, or Red's, he's not sure.

Perhaps his. This looks like Earth.

He's sitting on what looks like porch steps, the wood creaking under him as he shifts back. Over his shoulder, there an open door, giving passersby glimpses of the life inside. Laughter, loud and carefree, echoes, though it has a distinctly feminine quality to it, not the deep rumble of Shiro's chuckle or Lance's lighthearted snickers.

“Caterina, stop!” squeals a small-sounding voice, high-pitched with youth. “That t-tickles!”

An odd thought: Keith wonders if he ever sounded like that, so young, or if the necessity of survival aged him past a wild, curious adolescence.

“Caterina, let her go,” mutters another.

There's a soft scuffle, the sound of chairs scraping back, and Keith pulls himself to his feet using the stair railing as leverage. It's rough under his fingertips, claws denting into the worn wood. Right—he's not—he's not human, and he never will be. He doesn't belong here. This is some nightmare, some precedent where the world rejects him again.

But then a small shape hurtles through the door—a young girl, brown skinned and wild dark eyes, navy matched with chocolate hair—screeching, laughing, tripping over her own feet. She freezes in the doorway, and for moment they're both statues, deer in the headlights, and Keith's not sure who's the animal and who is the oncoming traffic.

And then, a miracle. “Keith!!” yells the young girl, and she flings herself against his legs, wraps her arms around him, brushing against his waist with her tangled hair, twisting her fingers in his shirt as she grips him.

“Keith?” calls someone from inside, and there's hurried footsteps as the house comes out to greet him. “Well, look at that.”

The knowledge comes easily to him: Caterina, dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, flowing after her like tendrils of elegant smoke, leans her tall frame against the open doorway, a familiar crooked smile lighting up her eyes. It's so close, so close to the telltale smirk that spells Keith's doom in the best ways, and it makes his heart clench with the way he can see Lance in the face of his older sister: the soft upturn of her lips, the sharp of her jaw, the quirk of her brow.

Isabella—her name, he recognizes now—extracts herself from around him enough to peer up through dark lashes. “Did you bring us anything? Where's Lance? Is Pidge here? Can Hunk take us up in the big lion again?”

Rapid-fire questions, aimed at Keith's slow-processing brain. He opens his mouth to reply—though he's not sure how he would, seeing as he doesn't actually know any of the answers. He's not sure if this is just a dream or some pseudo-vision from Red, leaking into his sleep. Perhaps it's some marbled swirl of both, bits and pieces of the future slipping into his so-often nightmares.

Before Keith can reply, another figure lurches through the door, slamming past Caterina, much to her distaste. She screams after him: “Jonathon! Watch it!”

“Gotta go!” he calls back.

“Ay! No—where are you going?” An angry huff, and Jonathon skids to a stop, an unchecked grin splitting his face in two as he turns to Lance, rounding the corner of the house, two duffel bags slung over each shoulder.

“I have to go explore!” explains Jonathon, like this is a very simple fact. “Otherwise I'll never find my own lion and be like you!”

There's a fond, sad smile that graces over Lance's lips. It stretches the scar running along the cusp of his cheekbone. In the next moment, he's all brotherly affection: “Okay then, I suppose. Be careful. Don't go too far.”

“You shouldn't encourage him,” Caterina says as she scowls down at him, but Lance gives a half-shrug in response, nearly dropping the bags on accident.

“Babe, you want to be less helpful?” Lance huffs sarcastically, and it takes Keith a moment to register that he's being spoken to. Lance prompts him by nudging a bag off his shoulder, muscles working as he holds it out to Keith. “Armor is heavy.”

“Uh—right,” Keith says, and takes his share of the bags, follows Lance up the steps, shuffles past Caterina into the tiny entryway.

Before he can even get the bags settled down, he's being assaulted.

Greying hair, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes from ages of laughter, gaze that has seen all the love and sorrow of building a family, Lance's mom waves a spoon at the both of them. Keith's ears flick back defensively, and Lance chuckles at him, but then he's immediately getting chewed out for not taking the fact they're both late for dinner seriously.

“Isabella has been complaining for the past hour! And where's Jonathon?”

“Went outside,” Lance squeaks.

“Lance,” she scolds, drawing out the name into syllables. She opens her mouth, perhaps taking her first breath since she started in on them, and Lance takes the chance to defend himself.

“He'll be back in a bit, if he's hungry. We'll go get washed up,” Lance assures, and grabs Keith's hand, tugging Keith further into home.

“ _Lance._ ”

“Hugs after I take a shower!” Lance promises. “Sorry Mom!”

Before Keith can completely register what he's doing, his instinct follows through, and he mumbles out a timid: “Sorry, Mom.”

They dump the bags on the worn couch, half-trip up the stairs together, still holding hands. At the top of the steps, Lance freezes and whirls with a soft sound of epiphany. He drops Keith's hand in favor of digging through his pocket.

“Here,” he says, drawing out a chain, half tangled around his fingers. “Fell off earlier. Told you riding me in the car was dangerous.” Even Lance's suggestive smirk is soft, filled with the love of mates and something more, something—the chain drops into Keith's hand, framing haphazardly around a band of gold.

 _His_ , it calls to him, warmed by Lance's pocket as he settles in his palm. Without question, Keith slips the chain over his head, and the ring settles against his chest, a mating mark in its own right.

“Come on,” Lance whispers, pressing an uncharacteristically chaste kiss to the corner of Keith's mouth.

And then Keith is tugged along after him, and they stuff together into a tiny bathroom. He takes a moment to drink in the room—shower curtains hand-painted with constellations, six toothbrushes of varying colors scattered across the counter, countless bottles of shampoo and body wash cramped together on a shelf above the toilet. It's only a moment, because then the door is against Keith's back and Lance against his front, hands settling against the curve of his waist, softer than he remembers.

How long has it been, since they were out in space? How long since they fought a war of galaxies?

Lance kisses him, like sunshine and memories. Works his lips against his with the ease of years of practice, and Keith returns with the same gentle confidence, because here, _now_ , years have passed, he thinks. They must have—or else his mind is playing some vivid, horrid, trick on him, letting him taste that for which the future holds no promise.

But part of Keith doesn't care, and loses himself to the kisses, because he misses his Lance—he misses the way he sighs, soft as their mouths part for air; the caress of kindness in his touch over Keith's jaw; the breathless, surprised chuckle when someone bangs on the door behind Keith and he squeaks in response. He whirls, dancing around Lance's feet to back away from the door.

“Mom wants you down ASAP!” Caterina shouts through the door.

A swift intake of breath from behind him, Lance's fingers curl into Keith's hips.

Keith turns; the fingers dig into claws.

The blue sky, engulfed entirely by the yellow of the sun in Lance's eyes. But this yellow isn't warm, isn't kind, isn't encouraging. It is cold and dark and malicious. There are a thousand stories of pain in its swirling depth, the sharp brightness of quintessence, the screams of innocent people.

And Lance grins, a gaping maw, fangs too sharp to be human stark against the kiss-swollen red of his mouth.

Keith is frozen, ice curling around his spine. A pierce of sensation on his skin, and Lance's hands are bruising on his hips, cold spreading from the contact. They freeze, or burn, Keith doesn't know, and when Lance speaks, the world turns dizzying.

“Well, well,” he intones, and his voice still has the soft undercurrent even as it grates against Keith's mind like a druid's, dripping poison in each word, tainting the air with vicious sound. “Looks like I caught myself a good boy—”

Bile rises in Keith's throat. He whimpers, fear making his entire body bristle. It helps to fend off some of the cold seeping into him, but it doesn't stop it, and now the ice in his blood is spanning from Lance's fingers and creeping up his chest, down his legs. Keith tries to pry Lance's hands off, digs his claws into the flesh until Lance hisses in pain, snatching one back to examine the damage.

Keith twists out of his grip, gets to the door and fumbles with the lock—and then he's pinned against his chest, dark magic curling around his throat, pressing him flush against the wood. He growls, or whimpers, as the circle of shadows tightens, threatening to cut of his air flow.

Lance laughs.

It burns Keith from the inside, even though everything feels cold. So, so cold.

Somehow, he's flipped around, the bolt of dark electricity still pushing his neck against the door.

Lance's quintessence gaze meets his. “You are ours,” he drawls. “You know that.”

“You're not Lance,” Keith grits out. “Bring him back.”

“Oh, but I belong to them, as well,” Lance purrs, drawing close enough that Keith's chest brushes his with every desperate attempt for air. “You know that, too.”

A step back, and Lance pulls off his shirt, turns to show off his bare back to Keith.

Except it's not bare.

Down his spine traces a line of Galra metal, embedded seamlessly into the skin. It pulls and reacts with the muscle, some foreign material that stretches to match Lance's movements as he drops the shirt idly on the floor, a smirk tossed over his shoulder. The center vein is only the start—scattered across his back, the material branches out in thinner lines. One reaches over his shoulder, just brushes under the scar of Keith's mating mark, still defined against Lance's tan skin.

Lightning on wood. Veins in a leaf. The marks of torture on a human body.

It blazes purple down the center of each line, a soft pulse of light, like liquid in grooves between tile.

Keith feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Lance turns back, presses up against Keith again, and his body is ice. “Oh, Babe,” he coos. “Don't be sad. They made me better.”

A gentle press of lips, the tightening on his throat, the nothingness of vision.

Keith wakes screaming, the ghost touch of Lance's frozen lips still on his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentions of panic attacks, arguments, body modification (results, not the act of), nightmares, suffocation


	12. Night Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am I updating right before s4 because it's gonna blow apart my fic?
> 
> nice theory but in reality i'm procrastinating my mythology homework
> 
> hahaha s3 already blew this fic to bits anyway

“ _I_ have _lost everything, Han thought. Then he corrected himself. Every time I think I've lost everything, I find there's still something else to lose.”_

\- _The Gray Wolf Throne_ by Cinda Williams Chima

 

Three days, he thinks. Maybe more. Time is an illusion, as Keith wanders between moments. Some are spent in restless sleep. Some, forcing down food under Hunk or Shiro's watchful eye, making sure he swallows. A few moments are spent talking to Allura, when Keith wanders in on her pouring over old documents, straining to read old maps in the dead of the night.

“They took everything from me,” Allura had whispered.

Keith had answered: “Lance is my everything.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She hadn't encouraged him—she hadn't even looked up from her work when he walked in, and she didn't look when he left either, leaving her to the silence of study. Besides a few conversations like this one, Keith is quiet, reserved. He's afraid of the gnawing feeling in his belly, a hunger that's not quite desire, but consumes him all the same. He's afraid of it growing, of it turning him into something dark.

Eventually, he puts a name to it: grief.

He wants to be the person the others see in him, but this dead emotion inside him wants to turn him sour. He bites his tongue to keep from baring fangs, holds his breath to keep from snapping insults, works himself to the bone in the training room to keep himself weak, else he lunge with tooth and claw.

His other waking moments, Keith spends holed up in Red, trying to draw some comfort from her purr to fill the void in his chest. But Red isn't enough, and he finds himself drifting. He reaches, with his mind at first, for the other lions.

Red is young, despite being the second eldest. She is wild. She is flame and smoke, elusive and destructive.

Green is the last lion—the baby of the family in all her curious unpredictable nature. She misses home, and she misses family. She misses her former paladin.

Right. Paladin. Only one. Over ten thousand years—and Keith is only the second person Red's ever chosen. The thought makes a flicker of pride swell in him, and if nothing else, he can be happy for a heartbeat as his purr responds in kind to his lion.

Yellow was built after Red, but fierce in his loyalty, fierce in his protection, and fierce in his love. Yellow is a castle, fortified against the world, but inside is warm and kind... and empty. There's a soft longing that washes over Keith when he realizes: that Yellow remembers nothing. He doesn't know why—trauma or some flaw of machinery—but Yellow's memories are entirely composed of thoughts gifted to him by the other lions, and Keith finally understands Hunk's wariness in all things he does with his lion.

The lions have drawn knowledge and experience from their former paladins as much as their paladins relied on them, but Yellow can't. He can't teach his paladin how to fight because he himself is a blank slate of experience. Keith makes a quiet mental note—once this all blows over, and hopefully they're for the better for it—when they have Lance back—when he's _okay_ again—that he intends to help Hunk bond with Yellow, to help them bond and learn to grow together.

Blue ranks in fourth in the litter, but tragedy has aged her. She was the only lion to have had two paladins before her current one. Her first was a blazing star, carefree and wild, loving in all she did, even in the glinting edge of her claws, and then... Something happened.

 _Morning Star_ , Blue tells him. Not a name, but a title.

Alfor took over.

Which, without the pain of losing a paladin, means Blue has the advantage when teaching Lance. With two different paladins before him, compared to the other lions, she has more experience. But the wisdom has mellowed her, left her mechanical heart cracked a bit more than the others, and even the great forge from which she was born wouldn't be able to reshape the heart of a lion to pristine innocence.

And Black—Keith scowls at he hits a mental wall.

And yet, the black lion beckons him, calls him closer even as they won't let him in. So, willing some strength into his heavy limbs, Keith pushes himself out of Red's pilot seat. His footsteps are quiet as he pads towards Black's hangar, and quiet as he presses a hand into the cool of Black's paw. For a moment, he feels a flicker of connection, a candle in darkness, and then Black is suddenly shifting into motion, leaning down to let Keith in.

And so he goes. The cockpit is empty—no Shiro—meaning Black allowed Keith to do this entirely of their own violation, but Keith has no clue why.

“I don't know what you want,” Keith whispers, brushing his hand over the armrest of the pilot seat. It would feel weird to sit down. This is Shiro's lion, after all, but Black is silent and he wonders if they're waiting for him to settle into the seat.

“When you finally left Red's hangar, I will admit that this is not where I expected you to go,” Shiro hums, leaning against the wall.

Keith feels himself jump slightly, having been too occupied looking over Black's controls to notice him come in. “I wasn't really expecting to get here either,” he says, shrugging, and cringes at the hoarseness of his voice from the disuse. “They let me in. Don't know why.”

“Pidge and Hunk are on their way back,” Shiro announces.

“Back? From where?”

Shiro scowls. “Keith. They went on a mission two days ago.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and while he feels vaguely bad about it, he can't entirely bring himself to care. “I guess I was distracted—”

“Wallowing?”

“—talking to the lions.”

“Sorry,” Shiro says. “I guess that was a little harsh. I'll admit I'm a little snappy recently. How are you holding up, actually?”

“I'm... here,” Keith says carefully, gaze flicking from the controls to Shiro. “That's about all I have going for me.”

Shiro draws closer, enough to brush a fingertip along Keith's cheekbone. “You need sleep,” he observes.

“You and I both know how hard that can be to get.”

Shiro's gaze softens. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I know.”

Keith lets out a sigh, leans against Black's console as the admission sits heavy between them both. He lets his eyes slip closed, almost of their own accord, but an unease and dread falls upon him as he does so. There's no sudden images of Lance with fangs or glowing eyes, and no sweetly unsettling glimpses of butterfly effect outcomes—no, nothing like that. Because there's no escape from it. It's a constant prickling under Keith's skin; it's a shudder working its way down his spine and never reaching its destination.

He swallows his pride. “I-I know you probably have Allura now, but... would you mind if I...?”

“You're always welcome,” Shiro responds without missing a beat. “I promise I won't tease you too much as long as you promise not to hog the blankets.”

The comment tears a half-smile out of Keith, drawing it from deep below his desolate mood. “Thanks,” he whispers. His breath fans back against his face as it hits Shiro's shoulder when he shuffles forward and pulls Keith into an embrace.

“Would it help if I pet you?” Shiro offers softly.

Keith feels himself flush slightly, and then lets out a breath. “It probably would help, but I—um—it's... Intimate... Only Lance...”

“It's okay,” Shiro comforts. “You don't have to, but I'm here if you need me, okay?”

Keith nods, forehead tapping once, twice, against Shiro's shoulder. He opens his mouth to reply, but his soft, underused words are drowned by the castle intercom.

“Paladins assemble in the medbay!”

“What's going on?” Keith asks.

Shiro pulls back, brow furrowed in concern. “I... _Shit_ , Pidge and Hunk—someone must be hurt!”

They both fumble out of the black lion, careless in their hurry, and run to the medbay. Ahead of them, Hunk is hurrying through the doorway, and Keith skids to a brutal stop when his vision reaches around the yellow paladin.

Pidge.

Part of him recovers, enough to tell the burning in his lungs and the pricks at the corners of his eyes to get it fucking together long enough to help, and he pounds forward, almost slamming into Shiro's back when he stumbles into the room.

Hunk is sobbing, but somehow, somehow, his voice is steady enough to be heard through the angry gasps: “Shiro h-help me brace them.”

Shiro jolts forward, arms looping around an unconscious Pidge, whose head lolls against Shiro's shoulder as his hands push against their ribs. “Careful—” Hunk hiccups out, “I think one of their ribs is bruised.”

Shiro nods, all business, though Keith can see the way his jaw clenches, the way he's dodging panic and memory and fear for his paladin family. The way regret settles on his shoulders, slopes them downward because as leader, he should be the one in Pidge's place...

Keith watches in abject horror as Coran gingerly peels Pidge's chestplate off, and one of their arms fall unnaturally away from their body.

They had learned the hard way about the logic of the healing pod when it came to dislocated joints, extreme fractures: the path of least resistance. Lance had been the one to suffer through this lesson, after they shoved him in a pod for a dislocated shoulder and it healed wrong. He'd bitched, and bitched even more when Keith had to intentionally dislocate it again so Coran could set it correctly and put Lance back in the pod.

And now here he is, watching as Hunk settles his hands where he's instructed to, and then Coran takes Pidge's upper arm in his hands. For a heartbeat, he looks on the scene, and everything is still except for the rapid heave of chests, and then Coran _twists_ , pushes against Pidge's shoulder. The entire room winces as Pidge's body convulses.

They look too small, surrounded by the others and hunched over Shiro on a small lab table.

The all take a moment to breathe.

“Get them into a pod,” someone hisses from across the room, and Keith notices Allura for the first time, looking on with a worried pinch to her gaze.

Hunk carefully curls himself around Pidge again as he lifts them, and Coran helps strip them of their armor and fit them into the healing pod suit before laying them into the cursed thing itself. Keith feels himself bristle. It's necessary—he can tell in the way Pidge's hair is matted to their temples with sweat and blood, the way their discarded undersuit on the floor is darkly wet in various places. But Keith still hates the idea that what goes into a healing pod doesn't always come out.

And they certainly don't promise to come out the same. His eyesight is a testament to that. Lance's shoulder, still achy on days when the castle is too cold, is a testament to that. Hunk's wild gaze after the first time he'd emerged from the pod, trembling with fear from the enclosed space, is a testament. The quiet way Shiro collapsed against the team's waiting arms each time, the confident and strong facade dropping for a moment as he simply _holds_ because he can't bear to lose them, can't bear to go back to the Galra, is a testament.

Ironically, Pidge is the only one who loves the healing pods. The tech, the magic of them, perhaps drew them in, but now they are a symbol of hope.

If they let the idea that healing pods don't always fix things permeate their mind, then what hope do they have if they find Matt broken and bloodied by the Empire, only to lose him on the castle? The thought was a whispered admission to Keith, once, when they both found themselves sleeplessly wandering the halls.

Keith tries to draw on Pidge's hope, but his gaze is still panicked as he stares at their peaceful expression, fuzzy and distorted by the glass case surrounding them.

Hunk is shaking.

“I—we—Pidge thought there w-was a lead on Matt, and I s-shouldn't have let them go—b-but... I should have covered them better—”

“Come on, Hunk,” Shiro soothes, but Keith catches the slight tremor in his voice. There's something about Pidge— _Pidge—_ getting hurt that hits hard with all of them. “You both made it back, and that's what matters. Let's go... clean up, okay?”

Hunk gives a too-quick nod, nerves frazzled as Shiro guides him from the room.

Allura lets out a tired sigh the moment they're gone. “I should... get back to...”

“Rest, Princess,” Coran interjects. “You need rest.”

“I don't know if I can, Coran,” Allura murmurs, and Keith relates to that sentiment.

“I'll stay here,” Keith offers quietly.

“And I will search the navigation system for any leads,” Coran promises. “Allura. Take a break.”

For a moment, the princess sets her stance, but then her shoulders slump in defeat and she mutters out a response and wearily trails out of the room after Coran.

Meanwhile, Keith settles himself next to the healing pod, leaning his back against the glass. It's cool against his skin, like the touch of ice, the brush of a not-yet danger.

 

 

 

A candle flickers against Keith's ribs, a dancing spark of something.

It's small, tiny as the gusts of lingering panic from the day threatens to snuff it out, but it remains. It's warm, not the cold touch of ice Keith was expecting. It's weak.

But it's Lance.

Keith cups his hands around it, trying to protect it from the whirl of worry in his heart. “Lance,” his soul breathes, and he aches for a response.

He doesn't get one, but the faint light between his fingertips stays steady, and Keith allows that to be enough.

He doesn't know what's happening. He doesn't know why he can't talk to Lance anymore, but at the absolute least, he knows Lance is alive, and some semblance of okay. It's an unsure connection, devoid of all but a small sense of self and the occasional whisper of indecipherable emotion.

He clings to it, tucked away next to his heart, as the team is finally forced out to try forming Voltron with Allura in Lance's place during a recon mission.

They come together seamlessly, though Keith's body feels his chest tighten in a sympathetic effect of Pidge's still-healing ribs. Allura takes a moment to adjust, but she's expertly in tune with Blue in what seems like seconds.

Still, there's an underlying strain, a quiet unease.

She's not Lance. She knows this. The team knows this. Blue knows this.

But they try, and they succeed.

Again. And again. It's necessity. A week without Lance, Keith thinks, and then two, maybe.

The candle burns steady, but Keith feels himself slipping.

They're all slipping.

Hunk either sleeps or eats. There's no more of the easy socialization, soft banter, or experimental recipes. Sometimes he and Keith fall asleep against each other on the couch. Hunk doesn't wake when Keith thrashes, screams against the nightmares.

Allura is tired. Shiro says he found her slumped at her desk, once, exhaustion finally overtaking her, and he had gotten her halfway to her room before she woke and demanded to be allowed to go back to her work.

Pidge is bitter. They blame themselves. Keith finds them in Green's hangar once, draped over the metal paw of their lion, with their shirt rucked up and a hand pressing harshly against their bruised ribcage, as if the sharp pain would make everything disappear.

Coran is quiet. Keith sees the dullness overtake his gaze: he lost another. He's always been a guardian, to both the Princess and the paladins. First Alfor and his team, and now... How many more before he learns to do his job correctly? How many more before he can finally keep them safe?

Shiro's worry is evident in his anger. He doesn't mean to, but he barks orders, demands respect and obedience. He's harsh in his words, and harsh in everything else he does. But sometimes, Keith crawls under the blankets with him, and the extra warmth soothes Shiro into a deeper sleep. Keith finds himself unable to fall into that same unconsciousness, but if he focuses on the rhythm of Shiro's breathing, he's calm enough to at least let his mind go comfortably blank.

He's pressed into Shiro's side, awake and falling into a rhythm of unthinking, when the alarms blare to life. Shiro's up in a split-second, cussing profusely when he fumbles over Keith's body, and Keith gets the weight of Shiro pressed onto his stomach before he can get a chance to scramble out of the way.

He takes a full moment to remember how to breathe before he reaches up to turn on his headband, and then he's hurrying after the black paladin.

He's the last one into the control room, limbs heavy with an exhaustion that settles into his bones. Then again, it seems to be settled on all of them, even though Pidge's eyes are wild behind their glasses, and Hunk is rapidly tapping his fingers against his thigh in an anxious tick.

“Princess, what—” Shiro starts sharply, and then breaks off.

“Why are we here?” Keith finishes, brow furrowing as the others seem to stare in stunned silence towards the far end of the room. ”Guys?” He heaves out a sigh, ready to complain that he's really not in the mood for jokes, and he really didn't think the others would be either.

But then there's a too-familiar voice, a gentle croon that sends shudders down Keith's spine. It's ingrained in his mind, wormed itself into his entire being through torment and past experience.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” Haggar purrs, and Keith clenches his fists, willing himself not to run.

“I wouldn't know,” he hisses back.

“How unfortunate,” Haggar says. “I had a show planned for you. I think you know the star performer quite well.”

“What?” Keith growls.

A breath, from someone in the room, or maybe all of them at once: “ _Lance_.”

Keith's body goes cold. “What's happening?” he snaps, and goes over to shake at Shiro's stiff shoulder.

But Shiro's terrified gaze doesn't reply, only remains glued to the indeterminate spot in the air where Keith now realizes the communication screen must be.

“It's L-Lance,” Pidge stutters out. “They have him chained up.”

There's a moment where everything stops. Keith can't take this. It's too much, all at once. Too much. He refuses to break down, not here, but damn if every cell in his body isn't screaming at him to do something, anything to make this stop. It hurts. It hurts, and it's not even his pain. He doesn't know what to do—what use is this, when he doesn't know what to do, how to help... Red, _please_.

Something stirs: a distant pull of the mating bond, and Keith hears movement over the comms, and then suddenly Lance is screaming in his mind.

It's weak, but a moment of clarity, as he pleads: _help me, help me, Keith._

Keith's entire body twitches with the need to do exactly that, even though he can't. He can't. He's useless.

The wave of fear rips all the air from his lungs, and Keith doesn't realize he's crying until a sob interrupts his attempt to drag in oxygen.

There's the sound of rustling chains, and Keith feels the featherlight kiss of claws over his shoulder—probably one of the druids tracing over the mating mark on Lance's skin he realizes. “You can ask your stowaway fledgling for what this feels like,” Haggar continues.

Pidge reacts first, a violent, “No!” ripping through their throat as the sound of a whip sings through the air. Keith hears Hunk retching. He feels Shiro tremble where his hand still rests on the leader's shoulder.

But it all fades.

Lance screams. Pain blooms across Keith's chest in sharp lines. His skin tears as his legs give out underneath him. He barely manages to catch himself from falling flat on his face. He waits for the blood to drip from his form, but it never comes.

With shaking fingers, he presses against his own skin, pulls them back dry.

The next hit lands, striking over the still-stinging pathways of the last blow. Keith's hand clenches involuntarily, and his claws dig into his chest for a moment before he hears Lance's whimper and rips them away.

“Don't you see what you're doing to him?” Haggar growls to her captive, and Keith feels ghost claws dig into his cheek, dragging along his jaw. “Break the bond, break it and you'll save him. You don't both deserve to die.”

Through the pain, Keith manages to grit out, “Lance, no—do-don't br—” _—eak it_. _Don't break it_. Keith's not entirely sure if it can actually be broken, but he knows the damage of Lance completely cutting him off would be irreversible, and that would be just as bad. Because even if they both have to suffer through this, the mating bond might be the only chance of them finding Lance.

But Lance is too far gone. He lets out a whine, and the whip hits again, this time over his abdomen. It sears across Keith's body, and he drops against his elbows. “P-pidge...” he wheezes out, between the strikes. He tries to drown out the sounds of Lance sobbing, but they ring in his head as much as he actually hears them. “Tra... Ugh... _fuck_ , tr-trace the c-call.”

Pidge doesn't move, and Keith tries to open his mouth to speak again, but instead there's a cool press of something at the base of his spine and before he can process anything, it turns to anguish. He screams—or maybe just Lance, but they're the same in Keith's mind—and arches his back against the pain dragging up his back.

“Pidge!” Allura barks, and then the room stutters into movement, everything shattered.

Blearily, Keith realizes that the sounds of Lance and the druids' torture has stopped, replaced by the rapid movements of the paladins around him. The communication must have cut off—but the pain continues, drowning him.

The sound of footsteps, of rapid typing, of Allura's attempts to sooth Shiro—they all fade. It's just Keith and Lance's cries, still projected over their bond, his own soft whimpers as his body ignites in druid flame. Or, at the very least, feels like it.

Another hit, another plea from Lance on his mind. Uttered prayers for help, whispers of Keith's name, begging. Eventually, they stop whipping Lance, and focus solely on whatever new torture they're working on his back.

The first touch is always cold, an icy chill up his spine before it digs in, drawing blood that isn't his. The lull of nothingness between presses of the tool is filled with Keith's gasps for air, Lance's incoherent whimpers in his head. It's all Keith can do to fight off a panic attack—but he's endured a session before without one and he can survive one more—and he tries to send Lance as much soothing emotion as he can.

A longer pause than the others interrupts the pattern of pain. Keith takes a deep breath, steadies himself before he reaches for Lance. It's warm, soothingly so, and Keith feels the sting of wounds ebb away. Quintessence, he dares to let himself think, that maybe this is how Lance feels with it, not the all-consuming decimation that it wreaks on Keith.

Lance's mind is a mess, barely conscious enough of the mating bond to let Keith in. A moment of comfort, of reconnection, where Keith takes a heartbeat to feel relief because he's found Lance. He found _Lance_ , and part of him believes maybe Lance doesn't hate him after all.

And then the whip sings again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: injury, torture (whipping, non-explicit body modification)


	13. Night Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i procrastinating homework
> 
> abso-fuckin-lutely.

“ _Hours of crisis often call for sacrifice. In matters of consequence, when have doubt and fear given the best advice? Why not heed faith, courage, and honor?”_

\- _Fablehaven: Grip of the Shadow Plague_ by Brandon Mull

 

When Keith comes to—he doesn't remember falling unconscious?—his body throbs with a dull ache, and he's in the lounge, laying on the couch. He prods towards Lance, finds him _there_ but his mind is closed off, hopefully just asleep.

Keith sits up, cringing against the pounding in his head.

“Are you okay?” Pidge asks from where they're curled into a ball on the opposite side of the couch, knees pulled into their chest.

Keith jumps slightly, to preoccupied with the throb of his body to notice them. “I'm... close enough,” he replies through dry lips. “Did you find out where...”

“No,” Pidge replies a little curtly, and they duck their head against their arms. “No. Nothing.” They suck in a shuddering breath as they pin their gaze on him, where Keith is busy feeling his way across his chest, checking for any actual wounds. “Are we ever going to find him?”

“We have to,” Keith replies, because he won't accept anything else.

“That's...” Pidge sniffles, looks away. Dejectedly, they continue: “That's what I said about Matt. But we haven't found him. Is he even still out there, Keith? Is he?”

“We'll find them both,” Keith says with conviction, even though his voice is a little gravelly from crying out.

Pidge takes in a shaky inhale. “Okay... Okay. We can do this.” Their voice grows in strength as they continue speaking. “We'll find them. Both of them.” A sudden crack. “I can't lose them both. Not again.”

Keith tilts his head against the back of the couch, mentally taking inventory of the way his skin tingles, trying to pinpoint what exactly they've done to Lance. His chest still stings in faint lines, a crisscross of pain where the whip must have left harsh marks across Lance's body. It makes him sick, but there's a bittersweet thought that flits through his mind at how pissed Lance is going to be about the fact his skin is no longer perfectly smooth.

His hips and legs flare with a similar pain, ghost touches of leather, but the main source of residual ache comes from his back. It's—not quite pain, lingering down his spine. It's a dull throb of anger, the way it makes his body tense and anticipatory for the next blow, the way fear floods his system and makes everything but Haggar's grating voice disappear. No, it doesn't hurt, but it feels like Keith's body hates him.

And worst, it is _cold_.

Keith leans forward, reaches back to trace a claw over his spine at an awkward angle, but he can't feel anything out of the ordinary.

Still. It bothers him.

“Pidge,” he says, standing—he wobbles a bit, notes that maybe he should eat something if he can because his legs feel like giving out. He peels his shirt off, wincing at the scent of blood as the fabric brushes over his nose from where he accidentally clawed himself. “Is there something on my back?”

Pidge shuffles out of their curled position and pads over, squinting. “Not... exactly.”

“What?”

“There are lines. Dark purple. Like bruises?”

“Show me,” Keith says, swallowing hard. “Trace them.”

He tries not to flinch away from Pidge's touch, but after the pain of torture, contact in any sense is a terrifying thought. He manages to stay still, though his skin twitches, as Pidge presses a finger to the top of his spine, drags it down in a slow line until they hit the waistband of his pants.

Keith holds his breath as Pidge's finger moves to the top of his back, starts on his spine and erratically stutters out over his shoulder blade, then dips down a bit. They pull back, start at his spine again, and then trace out in the opposite direction, then up to the junction between his shoulder and neck. And again: this time in the small of his back, and then across. And again.

Again.

Again.

Keith doesn't count. He doesn't need to, to know that this is what he saw in the first dream after Lance left. So that much of the premonition was true: the implants. The image is burned into his mind, the mapping of metal sown on skin that should be flawless. Lance doesn't deserve this. Lance deserves a beach and sun and family—he deserves happiness—not to be tainted by the Galra with their twisted experiments.

“It's a little like veins,” Pidges observes, and then: “Keith? Keith, are you okay?”

“What?” Keith asks, but his voice refuses to work and the word comes out as a croak.

“You're shaking,” Pidge says, and reaches for his hand, and Keith turns to face them. “And crying. Jesus—I don't... What happened?”

But Keith doesn't know what to say. How does he tell Pidge that he thinks they're turning Lance into a druid? That Lance might hate them all by the time they find him? How does he crush their hope of finding Lance when perhaps the paladins' optimism is the only thing keeping Keith going?

It hits Keith all at once, just as some of the others walk in—right on time to see Keith fall apart.

“Keith!” Pidge squeaks, voice pinched with concern, as his knees give out from underneath him, and he collapses, heaving for air, as the panic drowns him.

He can't—he might hurt Lance if he lets go—he might be the tipping point into Lance turning dark, like in his premonition. He can't—he can't— _he can't_ _hold on_. The world spins, the ringing in his ears gets to be too much, and Keith frantically claws at the headband, ripping it off even though the sense of _empty_ punches him in the gut instantly.

He hears the distant clatter of the device on the ground, but his heart is pounding in his ears, drowning out Pidge and Hunk as they both kneel by him.

The brush of fingertips over his skin is the kiss of knives, and Keith flinches away, whining through a broken voice.

He snarls the next time something touches him, lashing out in fear, but his hand connects with something solid—not flesh.

“Keith.”

The voice pierces through the dizzying sensation, and Keith finds himself leaning his back against the couch, sitting on the floor. His heart pounds—he needs air—air—

He doesn't realize he's reaching out blindly until he feels warmth against his palm, and he clings to it, dragging it closer to his chest and finding it's actually attached to something, to someone. To the voice who's coached him through this countless times.

“Keith,” it says again. “Your name is Keith.”

“My—” he chokes, and his body decides then to realize that it needs air before it can speak. “My... name is Keith.”

“Good. Do you know my name?”

“S-Shiro,” Keith responds, though it's weak.

“Good job,” Shiro hums. “Can you do something for me?”

Keith feels a shudder wreak through him, but he nods.

“I want you to take a deep breath. I'll do it with you. On three, okay?”

“O-okay,” Keith replies, and waits for Shiro's cue.

“One... Two... Three.”

There's the sound of Shiro's inhale, and Keith forces himself to match it. A moment of tension—where Shiro holds his breath, and Keith catches up—and then it floods from him, and he no longer feels like the world is crushing him.

“Would my vest help?” Shiro offers.

“Y-yeah, I think,” Keith says, finds his voice still hoarse. “Water?”

“I'll get it,” chimes in Hunk, and the sound of footsteps hurrying off accompanies the declaration.

“I need my hand back to give you my jacket,” Shiro says, and Keith slowly peels his own hand back, allowing Shiro to pull away.

He's cold, for a moment, feels things start to weigh on him again, but then Shiro presses something soft into Keith's hands and he's clutching to the fabric. He pulls the vest to his nose, breathes in the scent of sweat and Shiro and reminds himself that the world moves on. Then there's warmth pressing against his side, as Shiro shifts to sit next to Keith, shoulder pressing against his.

Hunk returns with a glass a moment later, and Keith shrugs on Shiro's vest in order to free up his hands. After Shiro directs it to him, Keith hastily drinks.

“Did something trigger this one?” Shiro asks quietly.

The words die on Keith's tongue. Druid. Lance. All of it—he chokes on the thoughts. Keith takes another long drink of water before he replies, in order to steady himself against the oncoming lie. “No,” he breathes out, finally. “Just... everything.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, and reaches his arm over Keith's shoulders. Human, Keith notices, because this, Shiro must realize, is what Keith is comfortable with. It's this warmth of contact that brought him back before when Shiro talked him through panic attacks after he escaped, and he's trying to be as normal as possible.

“We have to find Lance,” Keith whispers to him.

“We will. Can you track him at all?”

“Not... not really,” Keith sighs. “Only when he's close.”

Shiro hums out a thoughtful noise. “Let's all take the day off,” he decides. “We need the rest. And tomorrow, we start practice again. All of us.” He gives Keith's shoulder a pointed squeeze. “Back into routine. If we're breaking Lance out a Galra compound, we have to be ready. So sleep today. Training tomorrow. We'll do what we can to find him.”

“What if that's not enough?” Pidge asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“We're going to find him,” Shiro says, with enough conviction that Keith feels it in his bones. “We're not leaving him behind. Got it?”

“I... Got it,” Pidge replies, though they're voice is weak.

“We're a team,” Hunk says. “Lance would say that, and it's still true.”

Keith feels his chest flutter, a little lighter than before.

“We're a team.”

 _We're a team_.

 

 

 

Sweat drips down Keith's temple, sticking his bangs to his forehead. If he actually had the chance, he might brush the hair from his eyes because even though it doesn't impair his vision, it still bothers him. But he doesn't have the time for that—not when Shiro's thrusting the crescent blade of his monkspade at Keith.

After almost two weeks of barely eating—even less than when he'd been in the Galra cell—Keith is weak, his reactions slow, and he has to continually remind himself to draw his thoughts away from Lance to focus on the task at hand. But Shiro trusts him.

And by that, Keith means that Shiro trusts him to pull up his hook swords just in time to catch the crescent blade between his own crossed weapons, because the force of the blow is enough to push Keith back, boots skidding on the ground. Shiro doesn't waste a moment flowing into the next attack, whirling and jabbing backwards with the flat spade. Keith has to jump backwards to dodge away, and Shiro has successfully put distance between the two of them, giving him the advantage with the longer reach of his staff.

Still, he lets out a little huff, Keith notices, and he realizes that maybe Shiro's really needed someone to help deal with the anxious energy. Keith and Allura really are the only two who can keep up with him in close combat, and Allura had been focusing on the maps while Keith mourned.

There's a moment of stillness, and then Shiro is whirling again, but lifting the monkspade up as he turns, twisting it in his hands so the edge of the spade comes swinging down towards Keith's head. Keith ducks, rolls away, and manages to get his blades hooked together while in motion. The second he stops in a crouch, he's aiming his swords in a long arc, releasing his hold on one to let it sweep across the space between him and Shiro.

Shiro's forced back, stumbling a bit as he regains control of the momentum of his weapon, heavy with power but harder to manage once in motion. It's during this heartbeat that Keith lunges forward, finishing the arc with his swords to regain his hold on the hooked one, and then slipping the hook of the other blade behind Shiro's ankle while Keith dives past the black paladin.

The force behind his movement sends them both sprawling, though Shiro lands flat on his back with the air knocked out of him while Keith only stumbles to his knees, recovering quickly to press a boot into Shiro's shoulder.

“Okay,” wheezes Shiro. “Okay, you win.”

Keith finds himself grinning softly as he helps Shiro up, even though his lungs burn from exertion. He takes a moment, hands braced on his knees, to just _breathe_ , and feels Lance's mind stir, tugging back against his in a gentle brush of connection.

 _We're coming for you_ , Keith promises him, even though he's not sure if the connection is strong enough to convey his words directly. The bond wanes at times, dependent on their attention to each other. _We're going to find you_.

Shiro draws Keith back to the training room with a hand on his shoulder. “You good?”

Keith nods. “Just out of shape.”

“You could always stay in one of the pods for a bit,” Shiro offers.

“No!” Keith barks out the response a little more harshly than he intends, but the sentiment remains. “No—I'm good.”

Shiro squeezes his shoulder.

Keith feels a tug of Red against his bones, and then all the lions in turn. He doesn't have the chance to ponder what that means, though, because suddenly, there's a high-pitched squealing from across the room. For the sake of Hunk's pride, Keith really wishes he could definitely say that the sound came from Pidge or Allura.

Unfortunately, he's not actually sure.

“Everyone okay?” Shiro calls, instantly concerned as he makes his way over.

“Hunk got new weapons too!” Pidge squeaks excitedly.

The yellow paladin himself is staring dazedly at the new additions to his armor. Instead of the holographic shields the other paladins wield from their arm guards, Hunk's has split open to reveal an intricate pattern, embossed lining traced on into the face. Hunk lets out an excited yelp, and then he's ushering Pidge over to look at the shield—no, under it?

Attached underneath each of Hunk's forearms is a cylinder of perhaps metal. There are too many parts to keep track of, but Allura pads over, and lifts one of Hunk's arms gently, a quiet look of awe on her face.

“Hunk,” she breathes, and Keith hears the hitch in her voice that often accompanies talk of Altea. “The lions have given you a mighty gift. These are alchemist's cylinders.”

Hunk carefully runs his hand over the attachments. “It looks like a cannon of some sort,” he observes quietly, eyes wide with wonder at the mechanics.

Allura nods slowly. “Altean magic is limited in short spans of time, so we began compressing the magic into crystals. An alchemist cylinder can take compressed energy and release it. It—it was one of my father's weapons of choice.”

“Oh.” Hunk's voice comes out as a whisper of reverence. “That's—that's amazing.”

“It's a powerful tool,” Allura continues. “Not only as a weapon.”

“That's fucking _awesome_ ,” Pidge says.  
  
“ _Pidge_ ,” Shiro scolds.

“Don't even argue, Shiro, you know I'm _right_ ,” they huff back.

“That doesn't mean you should curse about,” Shiro says, sounding vaguely exasperated.

“Fuck,” Keith says, just to spite him.

“Don't you start,” he growls.

A commotion from the entrance to the training room snaps Allura and Hunk's attention away from the quiet adoration of the new weapons. Coran is a little out of breath as he bursts into the room. “Those—” he chirps, “You—you might need these—” He's still panting as he hurries over, but he pushes a small drawstring bag into Hunk's hands. “They weren't just Alfor's weapon of choice,” he says, a little quieter.

“Coran, we could have made crystals,” Allura says, only halfhearted in her protest. “By tomorrow I should be able to make a full set, presuming the castle's synthesis tech still works. You didn't have to.”

Coran gives an overdramatic shrug. “It's not as if I'm using them,” he says, but Keith catches the strain in his voice. “Besides, the sooner you get to practicing, the sooner you can master the cylinder! Here, Hunk, let me show you how to load them.”

Keith feels his brow furrow as Coran takes the bag back, withdraws a small sphere, and after helping Hunk fiddle with the weapons for a moment (and shooing Pidge away, who kept sticking their face in the way to try and see what's happening), he stands back with a triumphant look on his face. “Point and click from here, M'boy,” he says, and then suddenly the room is rocked by an explosion.

Keith's far enough away that he's not enveloped by the cloud of smoke, but the smell of it singes his tongue. He hears the others coughing, and Shiro dives into the haze to make sure everyone is alive.

Ears flattened back against his head, Keith feels concern gnaw at him, but then the smoke dissipates, leaving everything just a little fuzzy as the particles interfere with Keith's soundwaves. Allura is elegantly waving a hand in front of her face, looking stern and mildly annoyed. Pidge is hacking slightly still, and Shiro has a hand over his nose while he pats their back.

Coran's mustache is frazzled, eyes bright as he gestures wildly, and Hunk looks a mix of terrified and ecstatic.

“Coran!” Allura hisses. “Was that really necessary?”

“One has to start big if one wants to get the hang of these, Princess!” Coran replies, far too cheerful for a man whose ears must still be ringing from the sound of gunpowder and fire.

Allura responds with an exasperated roll of her eyes, but she has a fond smile quirking up the edge of her lips.

After two more explosions (though one bursts into a spray of mist), Keith ducks away from the center of the room to sit against the far wall, observing the other paladins. Shiro glances over when he notices Keith missing, but after a vague gesture and a thumbs up in response, he turns back to helping Pidge master their new weapons.

Keith watches, in the sense that he hears their movements, feels the tremor in their bones vibrate along with the thrum of echolocation and purr of lions. There's a nervous energy settled between them, even though the jokes and conversation have long since come easy to them, there's a strain in their voice, a soft trepidation in their movements. Keith feels it swell in him, this anxious determination, and tries to show Lance what he means to them through the way they unanimously decide he's worth fighting for.

He feels Lance tug back, an uncertain gratefulness, but grateful nonetheless, and Keith is forever glad just to have him _back_.

 

 

 

Three days of waiting, of watching and lurking behind hidden nebulae and worried smiles. The thrum of anticipation runs high through the castle inhabitants and through the lions, restless in their hangars like their Earthen counterparts in cages. They've been training hard, though no one is quite sure what for.

As time passes, the underlying sense of dread grows, but it fuels them on to stay ahead of it in the brutal race towards finding Lance. They will not be brought down.

But Keith feels the despair of this particular mission itch along his bones. They have no leads, have nothing to go on but hope and sickening prayers that Haggar will somehow give herself away in her bragging.

They haven't been contacted since, and Keith's bond with Lance has been weak, shallow in their connection as Lance fades between consciousness and lack of clarity.

He's curled next to Shiro, chasing after the elusive beast of sleep, when it hits him like a tidal wave. Lance suddenly floods their bond with sheer panic, raw and terrifying. Keith is fighting the oncoming hands of his Galra captors instantly, even though the rational part of brain tries to remind him it's not him they're coming for—but still, when Lance is being dragged away, Keith feels the claws dig into his arms as if it's his body their getting ready to abuse.

All semblance of control over the whimpers tearing from his throat is lost, and he vaguely recognizes Shiro waking and brushing his hands over Keith's legs. The gesture is intended to be comforting, but all Keith feels is electric shocks and the drag of a rough surface over his skin.

“Th-they're... t-taking him,” Keith gasps out, and he scrambles backwards, pressing against the wall as instinctual fear takes over.

He's not there, he tries to remind himself, if for no other reason than to keep from starting a positive feedback loop with Lance where they cycle through each other's panic, but he _feels_.

And he _sees_.

It's not vivid, but Lance is feeding him hazy images of his surroundings: the dark grin of a druid under a bird's mask oozing tendrils of black magic; the heavy chains linked to Lance's wrists as they restrain him against the wall, chest pressed against the cold metal; the ominous cackle as Haggar runs a claw down a slender knife.

The air is stolen from him as he feels the grasp of druid magic on his throat, and Keith tries to drag his claws through the hands choking him, and then whines when he connects with nothing. For a moment, he tries to pull away from the mating bond, to close himself off. It's better if they _both_ don't have to go through this, right?

 _Selfish_ , the word rings in his ears, and Keith is powerless in the waves of fear anyway. They've already taken him, and he's already been pulled out to sea, the salty water filling his mouth, coppery and... He must have bitten his lip, he realizes dully, because he can taste blood. Or maybe Lance did, and he tastes through Lance.

Their bond is closer than they've ever been, Lance driven to him in desperation, and Keith clinging onto the boy he loves, and this— _this—_ is how the Galra used mating bonds to their advantage. Why torture one mate when they could simply manipulate them with their emotions. Except that even those were not empty threats because the pain shared between mates is rivaled by only one thing: the pain of breaking mates apart.

And Keith has seen the Galra do that without remorse. The druids are sick, ignorant fucks—because if they'd ever had mates, they would know how much damage can be done.

Then again, maybe they do. Maybe the lengths they go are for those they love.

Keith chokes on nothing.

There's the press of something against the inside of his wrist—the blade, Haggar's hand curled around it. The flash of sharp teeth, and then pain laces up Lance's forearm.

Keith sees the blood flow—so much, so freely—and mourns. Here is the symbol of their bond, here is what ties them, and it spills so willingly to the dirty floor, trickling down the wall and pooling around Lance's feet.

He doesn't see the next cut coming; he just feels the tip of the knife slice through the back of his thigh, hears his heartbeat—Lance's heartbeat?—pound in his ears as if conscious of the loss. Lance doesn't make much sound beyond a soft whimper that tears at Keith own throat as much as it does his heartstrings. Another cut, this time from Lance's hip to just under his arm.

And then, nothing.

Lance's heart pounds, echoes against the hollow of Keith's ribcage, and they both tense in anticipation. They wait, together, clinging to each other because what else do they have to hold onto? Keith has long forgotten where he is, that Shiro is hovering nearby, because all he knows is the torture room, the cold metal on his chest, the biting chill of chains, the ache of soon-to-be scars, and the dull pain of twisted experiments.

His vision fades. Lance's whimpering, soft gasps for breath, slow and so quiet.

Keith is hit with a devastating realization: Lance is dying.

He pulls at the blue paladin, clutches to his mind with a trembling body. He might be crying, might be screaming Lance's name, or he might be restrained by Shiro. It doesn't matter.

He can't lose Lance.

He would never be able to regret a broken mating bond if Lance was the one to break his heart—but not like this. He'd expected, maybe, that Lance would leave him. Keith's not perfect, dreadfully short of amazing, and Lance one day might realize that, and might move onto someone who lifts him up as much as he deserves, but Keith had never imagined actually _losing_ Lance. He never imagined that death might be the reason he's left broken and alone in the uncaring vast.

Keith is breathless with the thought, that the last time he spoke to Lance was pleading for him to stay while Lance walked away from him, that if only he'd been a little quicker he might have been able to stop him. That if only he'd been better, Lance wouldn't have left in the first place.

There's a soft warmth of adoration pooling in Keith's fingertips, a parting gift.

But he doesn't want this—not now, not this quiet acceptance. _Fight_ , he tells Lance. Begs. Begs for it. Because he can't—he can't do this, not alone.

Love, apology, respect... It all trickles over their bond, while Keith floods it with horror. He feels as Lance goes pliant against the bonds, the drag of his breath in his lungs, a countdown until Keith's world falls apart.

And then: a small candle flame, warm on the surface of Lance's skin. His head tips back, the wax falls down his throat, brings Lance back from the edge of death.

Quintessence.

Keith freezes, expecting the oncoming burn of all-consuming power, except it never comes because this is Lance's body, not his. This is Lance's pain, and Lance's blessing in that quintessence truly heals him.

Lance gasps for air, coughing violently when he inhales some of the liquid Haggar is forcing down his throat, splutters until Keith feels it drip down his chin.

 _Miss you_ , Lance tells him, vague, uncertain words as he recovers.

It's all Keith can do not to let the terror overtake them, to set Lance off as much as himself. One deep breath—his throat hurts from coughing.

“Such a pretty mating mark,” Haggar coos, a striking whisper in Keith's mind. “Most don't turn out this clean, and I've seen quite a few. It would be a shame...”

Keith can't breathe. Something protective builds between them. Something dangerous.

The knife slices far too easily into the skin of Lance's shoulder.

Lance screams. He burns—he burns. Not quintessence, but power, dark and writhing, untamed in his mind. It coils, hisses, strikes like the snake that it is.

Keith echoes Lance's screams.

Vaguely, he feels the world move.

Haggar hisses in pain, but everything is in flames. The chains binding Lance's wrists are gone, and he collapses, shaking, to the ground.

Keith struggles against the hands that attempt to put him into a pod, but his panicked mind is nothing in comparison to Shiro and Allura's strength.

The world goes blissfully blank.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentions of torture, panic attacks, torture (knives, blood)


	14. Night Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively: The Exposition Chapter That Was Found Dead In Miami, Murdered By S3
> 
> Buckle up kids, this chapter is two for the price of one.

“ _If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.”_

\- _The Book Thief_ by Markus Zusak

 

Keith dreams of supernovas, of sentient darkness, and unknown beasts.

He dreams of Lance, each tear falling down Lance's cheek another shard of broken glass to cut Keith's knees as he crawls towards him.

He dreams of quintessence—golden fields of wheat that sway, ominously innocent, in the gentle breeze.

Something snaps. Someone screams. Maybe him. The world flickers in and out of reality.

Keith bruises his knees when he flings himself from the pod, completely missing Hunk's waiting arms. For a moment, all is quiet—and then everything hits him, far too clear, and he retches against the bile of grim notions in his gut.

 

 

 

Except for the faint mechanical heartbeat of the castle, it's quiet when Keith wakes up. Groggily, he rolls over, kicking weakly when his legs tangle in the sheets. For a moment, he just breathes, nose pressed to the pillows as the scent of Lance envelops him, soothes the dull ache along his spine. He's in Lance's bed, he notes, and reaches across the pillows for said owner of bed, only to have the realization still his searching fingertips.

Keith takes in a deep breath, lets the exhale out in controlled movements.

He bites the edge of the pillow to muffle his scream. Frustration. Anger. Vengeance. Sorrow. Longing. Pain.

His canines prick through the fabric of the pillowcase, tearing through the silken material.

Lance will chew him out if they get him back.

When—when.

When they get him back. If. When.

Does it matter if Lance hates them all, turned by the druid's torture and experiments?

Keith draws himself from the bed, stumbling slightly into the less-familiar space of the room. Carefully, he makes his way outside, hand running along the wall to keep track of where he is. He doesn't have his headband, but he vaguely remembers taking it off before crawling into bed next to Shiro before he'd been put in the pod. Now though, he has no idea where it is or even how long he's been out.

At least his strength has returned after his time in the pod, and he's no longer running on weakened muscles.

Still, he stumbles slightly as he wanders through the castle, ears perked towards the quietest of movements. There—a skittering...

Something runs over his foot, and Keith flings himself against the wall with a yelp.

That fucking mouse.

He has no clue how Platt is still alive—after all this time, the others have run the course of their lives, died of old age or that tragic incident with some mechanical failure of the castle (Allura had been downright crushed... And that's a bad choice of words). But Platt. Platt refuses to die.

He's old, and mostly stays to the confines of Allura's room where she keeps a bed of soft pillows for him to lounge on while she waits upon his whim, the spoiled little demon. Maybe it's in Keith's genes, to not like the creatures, but he can't bring himself to particularly enjoy his company. Not that Platt is exactly riveting company in the first place.

Platt squeaks at him.

Keith growls. “Shoo. Or I'll step on you. Or at least try.”

More irritated squeaking.

“What do you want?” Keith hisses. “Go away. I'm looking for people.”

Platt bites his toe.

“Ow! You little fucker—get back here—”

Red suddenly purrs amusement at Keith. _Follow the snack_ , she says, because apparently Red is still at the end of all things, a cat, and mice are therefore prey. _I have foreseen_.

 _Couldn't have said that in the first place_ , Keith tries to grumble back. He's not sure how coherently it gets through. “Alright. Fine. Lead the way. I need you to make noise so I know where I'm going.”

Platt, unfortunately agreeable, squeaks incessantly. Keith has a headache by the time he's led into the control room.

“Keith!” Pidge cries as soon as he's in the room. “You're here!”

“Really?” Keith fires back, sarcastic. So maybe between just waking up and everything else that's happening, he might be a little bitter. “I wasn't aware. Why did I get bitten by a mouse to end up here?”

“We have a lead,” Shiro says.

Instantly, his mood turns around, a quiet flame of hope simmering in his chest. “Where?”

“The Rexu quadrant of the Lithem galaxy,” Coran supplies, and Keith lets out a groan.

“That means nothing to me—how far?”

“About a day,” Allura says. “We were only able to wormhole so close. The Lithem galaxy is riddled with black holes. I'm not exactly sure what the Galra are doing there in the first place—there are not any planets, only stars and explosive gas, or nothing at all.”

“Well the gas might be useful?” Hunk asks. “For, you know, exploding things. Since it's explosive. Right?”

“It would be if it were containable, but it's really not worth the effort,” Allura answers, sounding weary. “Even the combustible Babdar fruit from Altea was more accessible.”

“Oooh,” Coran hums. “And Babdar fruit was harder to obtain than scaultrite from a Weblum!”

“Can we not talk about Weblums? I still have nightmares,” Hunk says.

“ _Anyway_ , we'll have to be careful navigating he Rexu region. And we'll have to be doubly aware because we don't know the Galra's motives for being there.” Keith hears Allura let out a soft sigh. “I only hope this yields something of value.”

“Princess,” Shiro says softly, and Keith hears it in his voice: the concern laced with emotions that aren't his own. Because that's what happens when one falls in love—a partner's concerns become more than just theirs to bear. “You should rest. Coran and I can manage the castle.”

“I... Yes, alright,” Allura concedes, allowing her voice to sound far wearier than Keith has ever heard it. “Wake me if you find anything.”

“We will,” Shiro promises, and Keith hears Allura's footsteps brush past him.

“How did we find this region?” Keith asks into the silence that follows Allura's departure.

“Pidge found a signal relaying coordinates and decoded it in record time,” Coran announces.

“Yeah, I guess,” Pidge mumbles. “It was kinda a stroke of luck.”

“We deserve some luck after all the shit we deal with,” Keith mutters back. “You did good. How long was I out?”

“In the pod? A couple hours. Since then, you've been asleep almost the entire day,” Hunk explains. “You feeling better?”

Keith runs a hand over his face, lets it drag through his bangs, and then pouts when his fingers tangle in it. Lance is going to have a fit about the knots. “Define 'better.'”

“Uh,” Hunk says. “You acted like me when my motion sickness hits when you got out.”

“Yeah, that was... That session was pretty bad. I don't know what about it—but...” Keith swallows, and braces himself against the words he lets fall past his lips, because now that they're in the open, they feel too real. “They're doing something to Lance. I think they're trying to turn him into a druid.”

“Well,” says Shiro after a moment, voice measured in its level tone. “I suppose it's a good thing that we're going to rescue him.”

Keith feels fear swell inside him. His voice comes out as a whispered exhale: “And if he doesn't want to be rescued?”

“Why wouldn't he?” Pidge says, bristling. “They—they tortured him! Why would he want to _stay_?”

And Hunk, blessed Hunk, though Keith isn't sure if he's grateful of how well the other can read him, softly responds: “You're thinking of Arras.”

Keith nods slowly, and remembers how the others had reacted when he eventually told them what happened the night of the banquet, right after the mission briefing they'd all assembled for. Keith had still been a bit out of it, after Lance kept him hazy with sated arousal, and now... Looking back, it had all seemed unnervingly intentional, even in the way Lance's steady voice had confirmed Keith's foggy retelling.

There had been various responses, but when Pidge's eyes flicked over his body, silently searching for the wounds underneath his shirt, Keith knew the story hit them all a little harder than they were letting on. Here, right in front of them, was a direct result of the damage the Galra can do to a mind.

A perfect example of something so, so broken.

“But Arras was with the Galra for years,” Pidge protests.

“You're right,” Keith allows, but now the idea is planted.

It doesn't matter, because the only thing running through their minds is a Lance so beautifully broken that instead of family he only sees hatred in their eyes.

“We'll find him,” Coran says suddenly, breaking into the dreadful silence with a boom of a voice. “We'll bring him back. Even if he's under their control, we can and will bring him back. I won't—” He breaks off. “I won't watch another one of my friends be lured in by Zarkon's tricks.”

Keith licks dry lips, feels his throat tighten with high emotion, but it's Hunk who finally voices the question:

“...Another?”

There's a tremor in Coran's voice as he continues. “Have your lions ever told you about the previous paladins?”

“Yes,” Keith breathes along with Shiro, while Pidge and Hunk echo 'no's.

“Zarkon was once someone I held close to me, but so were the other paladins. I was to them what Allura is to you. Haggar once flew Red. And—the blue lion—Blue was once flown by a pilot named Zinnia.” Coran gives a soft, bitter laugh. “She was beautiful, and we loved her. All of us. Her name meant _Morning Star_ , and we rose and fell with the sound of her laugh. Zarkon may have piloted the black lion, but we were on our knees at Zinnia's whim.

“Alfor and Zarkon took up a rivalry between brothers-in-arms, flirting for her hand, and Haggar would bring her flowers. It was no secret their friendship was closer than most—no secret that Haggar flipped courtship on its head with her, flaunted their relationship in private musings, even as Alfor and Zarkon danced around each other. But all things had to end, and eventually Zinnia fell in love. Truly did. And she chose Zarkon.

“Haggar's relationship with her was like fire, and though it blazed, it had run its course, but Zarkon—he _worshiped_ her. She bore her mating mark with pride, wore it across her neck with the same pride Alteans wear their markings, and with grace she struck down anyone who spoke against it. Zinnia was the reason we all lasted as long as we did, as friends and as a people.

“And then—” Coran pauses, drawing in a long breath that shakes through his being. “Like all stars, they fall. She fell. And we fell with her. Zarkon blamed us, and Haggar had been caught between it. Zarkon convinced her that we had betrayed Zinnia, somehow, and turned Haggar against us. That day Alfor lost a sister, and I lost one of the dearest friends I had ever loved.”

There's a flurry of questions that come bubbling to the surface from the other paladins following the conclusion of Coran's explanation, but Keith stays out of it. It all falls together, puzzle pieces fitting perfectly with the information Red has already fed him. He has questions too— _Haggar is Altean, Alfor's sister? She flew Red? What happened to Zinnia?_ —but they all taste useless on his tongue. The answers don't actually mean anything beyond extraneous information.

What he does feel is the grim determination settle in his gut. Haggar, this dark creature of no remorse, lacking mercy or kindness, once flew his lion. Haggar was once good, and Zarkon degraded her to _evil_. He will not let the same be done to Lance.

Lance is good. Lance is like sunshine, warm on a sandy beach. Lance is almost too-tight hugs, and soft kisses, and caresses that chase away nightmares. Lance's voice is music, either in boisterous laughter or the tune of some song sung under his breath. Lance is bravery and kindness; he is the world as it could be, as it _should_ be. Lance is... Lance.

And Keith will not let that be corrupted. Not for anything.

Because Lance fights for something far worthier than any motive Zarkon has for this brutal destruction of worlds.

Lance fights for love. So Keith will too.

 

 

 

The void of space looms out in front of Keith—except it's not void, and also is. Pockets, blips in the universe where reality is bent, litter the span of Keith's— _Red's—_ view. Black holes, like wormholes, change the way the galaxies connect, but once one is consumed by the darkness of a black hole, there's no telling where the exit is.

If there is one.

Overall, not a good idea to approach one, much less weave between many.

And yet here they are.

The comms are silent, as the paladins of Voltron—or... Well, Keith supposes they still can be called that, even with Allura piloting Blue—concentrate on slipping past one portal to certain death after another, dodging the drag of the black holes as best they can. Keith navigates the Rexu region with relative ease, though the pull of the black holes throws Red's small frame around a little too easily for comfort.

Allura seems to be having the most trouble, being the newest pilot, and Shiro and Hunk frame Blue like bodyguards while Pidge and Keith lead the way.

Twice they've had to backpedal to avoid a cloud of explosive gas, because no one wants to risk the lions' thrusters setting it off. One of those times, Hunk got caught in the tug of a black hole while turning and Shiro had to nudge Yellow out of it with strained determination.

They're going in almost blind, too, trying to find a needle in a haystack. Somewhere in this vast jungle of danger, there's a ship. And on that ship, with any luck: Lance.

 _We're coming, we're coming_ , Keith promises.

Blue chants a gentle echo of possession: _mine, mine, mine_ , just loud enough for the other paladins to pick up on through their bonds. Even as the stress bears down on them, the looming threat of mistakes, there's a sense of finality amongst the team. The paladins of Voltron have come to take back what is rightfully theirs.

They lose track of time in the singular focus of the task at hand.

And then—there.

Pidge spots the ship first, whispers their knowledge over the comms, but Green had already relayed the message, and the others feel it in their bones in turn.

But Green's purr of excitement turns sour, from gentle to a quiet warning, and then louder and louder—because now Red's blaring warning in Keith's mind too.

They've been caught by a black hole. All of them.

Keith slams against the controls, fighting against the pull. If any of them can get out, it should be him... Except black holes don't cast soft waves of light, and a black hole wouldn't be dragging them towards the weird-looking Galra ship before them.

Not a black hole, then.

A tractor beam.

They've walked right into a trap.

Shiro shouts something over the comms, and Keith sees the flick of Black's tail on the edge of his lion's vision, but the words go unheard. Instead, he focuses on turning Red, precise in his movements as anger fuels deadly concentration.

There's a grunt of triumph as Shiro breaks away, and distantly Keith notices Black pressing their shoulder into Green, trying to free Pidge from the beam. Keith growls, letting Red rumble through him as he pushes against the pull of the beam, throws Red's thrusters into full blast, feels Red's mechanical heartbeat align with his... And then they're free.

Instantly, the anger drives through him, and drives through Red in turn. Or perhaps the other way around, or maybe because of her. It doesn't matter—not when they're both in tune, a pair of avenging angels, ready to retaliate with force and fire.

Hunk calls for him over the comms, but Keith's intent is single-minded.

He's going to get Lance back.

Red rushes forward with all the practiced agility in her being, surprising even Keith with the swiftness of her response. But really, this is nothing new—even the lions can tell when the team is incomplete, even Red feels the gaping hole that Allura tries and forever fails to fill. Because Blue is not her lion, and the other paladins are not her teammates.

Friends, family, yes.

But teammates, partners and brothers-in-arms? Those are titles reserved for Lance and the other four humans searching the galaxies for him.

There's a thrum of bright clarity in which the growl rising in Keith's throat matches the roar Red's entire being shakes with, and then—the buildup and release as Red fires lasers right at the bow of the Galra ship. A sort of grim satisfaction takes over.

“Keith! Ah, fuck—thanks Shiro,” Pidge grunts. “Be careful, you could hurt Lance!”

Keith's blood runs cold.

No, no—fear paralyzes him for a moment with the idea that he fucked this up because he can't keep his impulses under control for two seconds. But Red would have warned him. Red _would have seen it_. She would have glimpsed to the future and seen the result where Keith ruins everything, and instead she's only shown him a broken, dark-minded Lance.

But his worrying is useless anyway, because the laser bounces off a force field like that of the Castle's, and Keith huffs in frustration alongside his lion.

“Keith,” he hears Shiro warn, but the red clouding his vision is too much, too much.

Keith wills Red forward, ignoring the sounds over the comms from his teammates, grunts of effort as Shiro and Pidge work to free Yellow from the tractor beam. Keith dodges a small cloud of explosive gas, maneuvers Red skillfully around it to avoid setting it off without losing his speed.

His vision shimmers with the memory of the location of the force field, but he can't be entirely sure of its position. Regardless, it doesn't deter Keith's reckless momentum, and then—Red ducks her head, and _there_.

The impact is jarring, and Keith feels the shake in his bones as he recovers from where Red slammed her shoulder mercilessly against the shield. Over the concerned cries from his teammates, Keith lets out a soft noise of triumph as the entire shield flares up into visibility, flickering once or twice before going invisible once again.

There's a sickening smugness permeating Keith's skin as he drags Red's claws along the surface of the force field and it crackles ominously.

A cheer over the comms.

Then, crackling over their system, a broadcast: “Stop, please. Or else we hurt the blue one.”

For a moment, everything is deadly silent except for the shuddering breath Keith manages to pull in. His heart aches. His soul aches. Lance, Lance. He's so close—the sound of Pidge's outraged cry spurs him into action, and this time, when he fires his lasers at the shield, he's not alone in his endeavors. Hunk stays back, but Pidge and Shiro slip forward to add firepower to the attack, and the force field flares up again, sparking dangerously.

A quiet sound in the dark: a yelp of pain. It darts through Keith and leaves him gasping for air, damage done over the bond of their tiny family. Blue lashes out against their minds, thrashing as her paladin is hurt.

Black and Green freeze.

“What are you doing?” Keith growls, spurring Red into action again, though this time she hesitates in following his command.

“Keith. Stand down,” Shiro says, and though his voice wavers, it still holds all the command of the true Black Paladin.

“They have Lance!” Keith protests, and this time when he moves the control of his lion, Red outright refuses to move, bowing to the willpower of her leader. “They—”

“I said, stand down!” Shiro snaps, and it's the tone of his voice that gives it away.

Because the worry making his words shake uncertainly over the comms, even as Shiro barks orders, is not the kind of emotion saved for family. Of course, Shiro loves Lance, in a way, as the team all loves each other, but this—

That's the tone saved for protecting mates, for rescuing lovers because he'd rather give up himself than watch someone he's shared quiet moments of peace with suffer. It's the same tone that Keith growls in, fighting against the need to drive himself into the ground trying to save Lance.

Because it wasn't Lance that cried out in pain.

It was Allura.

He can't stop the snarl that tears through his being. It's raw and angry at the world—the universe—for being so cruel as to letting him believe he was so close to getting Lance back, only to have that hope torn away from him. And when the sound runs its course through his body, Keith is left shaking, whimpering against the pilot seat as he longs for a boy lost in stardust.

Wearily, the strain on the team's bond through the lions relaxes, as Black pulls back their domineering force keeping Red in place, and the paladins themselves take a moment to breathe.

“What do you want from us?” Shiro asks, voice steadier, towards the Galra ship.

“We perhaps request your help.”

“Why would we help you?” Keith spits before he can stop himself.

“We ask permission to broadcast a video message.”

Shiro sounds wary, but nonetheless allows it.

There's a click of something over the comms, but Keith can't see the holoscreen, so it doesn't make a difference to him.

“We are the Blade of Marmora. We fight against Zarkon's reign.”

“But you're Galra,” Hunk deadpans.

“Not all Galra desire to be known as monsters. You have a half-breed on you team, and you do not question him.”

Keith's ears flick back defensively as he's mentioned, and a growl teeters on the edge of audible.

“What do you need help with?” Shiro asks, getting back to the point.

“Look.”

There's the sound of shuffling, and then silence for a moment.

Pidge draws in a sudden gasp, stunned and shaky. Their voice echoes pain over the lions' bonds as they choke out a single name.

“Matt.”

 

 

 

Keith lingers near the edge of the group, ears flicked back distastefully as he focuses his senses on the two Blade of Marmora members carrying in a beeping pod. It's a steady rhythm, a mechanical measure of life left in the countdown of heartbeats. Pidge hovers unabashedly nearby, walking alongside the portable healing pod, the machinery that keeps them separated from their brother the only thing also keeping him alive.

The entourage settles the pod into the medbay, securing it as best they can in the room, crowded with the number of people all clamoring to hear the story these rebels have to tell.

Pidge leans against the pod as the Blade of Marmora members step back and turn to Allura and Shiro, whose presences leak authority in the set of their shoulders and the gentle upturns of their chins, defiant in the slightest movements. Keith stays in the doorway, while Hunk slips just inside, staying near the wall.

Coran comes up behind Keith, rests a hand on his shoulder.

He feels some of the tension ease from him, just from the contact. Something about Coran exudes understanding, and Keith has a feeling Coran has been through far more than he lets on.

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” starts one of the Galra. “We are not... Acquainted with human anatomy or biology. We admit we are not equipped to help him.”

“I would like to know the name of the Galra who helped our friend,” Allura states.

One of them steps forward—the fur of his ears twitching slightly, a habit that Keith notices only because he recognizes it as a common nervous tic. “My name is Thace. This is my partner, Ulaz.” He gestures towards the other staying close to his shoulder, turning his slender face towards Allura and nodding respectfully as he's introduced.

It's as Ulaz is turning towards Shiro that Keith sees it, nestled behind his ear along his neck, the scars faded with age, but still raised enough for Keith to pick them out against the smooth of his skin. He feels it draw him in, in the soft connection of mates, and instantly he's put at ease, knowing before him are a pair as equally devoted as he is to Lance. That before him are those who understand. Still, he bristles with lingering frustration from the whole experience, and it's that animosity and the subtle hiding of the truth that makes him spit: “You mean your _mate_?”

Thace turns with mild surprise in his gaze. “I—yes.” His brow furrows. “You must be mated to notice so quickly.”

Keith feels something deflate inside him, and before he can stop the sudden swell of emotion, his ears goes from flattened against his head to drooping forward, utterly dejected.

“His mate is the Paladin we are searching for,” Allura explains coolly. “You said you may have information on him?”

There's a look that Ulaz and Thace share, a quiet understanding, and Keith wonders if they can share minds as well.

“We should start from the beginning,” Ulaz says. “The Blade of Marmora doesn't fight for the freedom of the universe in the same way you do. By no means do we wish to oppose you, but we prefer the reign of Prince Lotor to that of Zarkon, and our goal is to put him on the throne.”

Allura nods, slowly. She doesn't look exactly pleased at the idea, and after meeting Lotor, Keith isn't exactly fond of that result either. But with all luck, Voltron will win the day and in the end there's a peaceful universe again.

Thace picks up. “We rescued Matt during an infiltration mission, partly on accident. One of our members was having trouble with hacking the system, and Matt managed to help him finish the job.” Thace gives Ulaz a pointed look.

“Well, I wasn't going to just leave him after he helped me,” Ulaz huffs.

Thace's gaze narrows, but he turns back to Allura to keep speaking. Ulaz rolls his eyes. “As someone without a Galran appearance, Matt passes as a prisoner far more easily, and his knowledge with tech of any kind is amazing. He became a very skilled spy for us.”

Ulaz looks towards Keith, and his gaze softens as he continues the explanation. “Matt was captured, but we had one of our members positioned on the ship. He relayed information between us and our commanders, and also helped keep track of the druids. He was posing as one. He met the Blue Paladin, in a way. He saw what they did. I—I can't imagine what you felt. For those pledged to the Blade, mates are considered weaknesses until Zarkon is taken down. It's too easy to debilitate members when one is captured.”

“And yet, you seem fine,” Keith replies, feeling empty. Lance hasn't responded on their bond for so, so long...

“Unfortunately,” Ulaz continues, after an almost shuddering breath. “We couldn't get both of them out. What they're doing to your paladin was not of our concern at the time. Had we known, we would have done our best to help, but as is we had to do whatever we could to rescue Matt while keeping our infiltrators out of sight. We've lost contact with our spy for the time being, so we can no longer relay the location of the ship to you.”

“You could have gotten him out,” Keith growls.

“We are sorry,” Thace replies, and his gaze softens. “I know what it's like to be apart from a mate.”

“And do you also know what it's like to have a mate turned into a druid while you feel _all of it_?” Keith snarls, feeling the fur on the back of his neck raise.

“Keith,” Shiro scolds, and Keith lets his weight slump against the door frame.

“Wh-what... happened to him?” Pidge asks into the quiet that follows. Their voice is timid, and they've looked on the scene with wide eyes the entire time, a slight tremble in the hand that isn't pressed carefully against the glass of the healing pod. And of top of everything else Keith is feeling, worry for Pidge's well-being spikes through him, because he can't lose another teammate.

Thace's ears twitch, the same nervous habit. “He... From what we know, we were forced to trigger an attack of some sort in order to cause a distraction. Matt was supposed to fake his death, and then our spy would send him out in a pod instead of a coffin. Something... Something went wrong.”

“No shit,” Keith mutters.

“This is the most stable we can get him, but... We're not sure where to go from here.”

Pidge shakes their head slightly. “I... I'm just g-glad to have him back. Thank you. _Thank you_.”

“We expect when he awakens, he'll want to stay with you, but in any case you need to contact us, take this.” Thace removes a small black cylinder from a pocket in his suit and presses it into Allura's hand.

“...Thank you,” Allura says. “Coran and Shiro can see you out.”

The Blade of Marmora members nod, and Keith ducks against the wall to get out of the way as Shiro brushes past. There's a soft moment of connection, where Shiro glances down at him with aching concern, and then he keeps on, joining Coran in leading Ulaz and Thace back to the hangar where their small ship is held.

Allura glances at where Keith is attempting to melt into the wall, and then sighs. She nods at Hunk, and motions for him to follow the group, and Hunk hurries to comply, trailing after Shiro.

“Pidge, are you alright?” Allura inquires carefully.

“I'm...” Pidge starts, and then turns to look at Matt in the pod. “I'm better than I've been in a long time, but it's a lot to take in. And—and I can't—I don't know what happened to my dad. But I have Matt back, and that's something. More than I've had in three years.” They turn towards Keith. “I'm sorry.”

Keith sends Pidge a soft smile, because as bitter and angry as he is, he can't actually blame them for being happy. They've been searching for their family far longer than Keith has been searching for Lance. This is a hope that had grown far more fragile over the years, and to have Matt back, in any sort of state relatively resembling life... Well, Keith is putting in the effort to be happy _for_ them, if not _with_ Pidge.

For a moment, Pidge looks torn, glancing between the pod and Keith, and then they reach a hand out for him. Keith feels himself push off the wall and approach, and then Pidge is wrapping their arms around Keith's waist, unabashed as they cry against his shirt. Keith fights back exhausted tears of his own, and instead wraps his arms around Pidge in turn, letting them bury their face in the crook of his shoulder, body trembling with overwhelming emotion.

“I've got you,” Keith whispers.

Pidge, impossibly, laughs, a bit hysteric. “I never—never thought... Jesus, what the fuck, Matt? I leave you alone to go on a mission for a year, and somehow you end up joining a rebel group and become a top spy, and I'm a defender of the universe. What would Mom say?”

“I think she'd be proud,” Keith manages to choke out.

Pidge falls into relative silence, with only the occasional shocked, high-pitched giggle slipping from their lips as their tears soak his shirt. A gentle thrum of _mine_ echoes through Keith, a mix of his sense of family where somewhere along the way, he and Lance became the temporary brother figures for Pidge, and also Red's claim on Green, in the way the lions protect their youngest with all the force they can muster.

“Oh, come on, guys,” Hunk huffs when he reenters the room. “You couldn't wait two minutes for me to get back before we start the hug pile?”

“Get over here,” Pidge quips, not pulling their face from Keith's shoulder, but reaching blindly towards Hunk.

Hunk complies instantly, wrapping them both in a crushing squeeze, and Keith worries for the integrity of his ribcage.

Shiro appears in the doorway, looking on with a fond, broken expression. Allura goes to him, and reaches for his hand, taking it in her own and holding on. Shiro turns to her, opens his mouth to say something.

But the sound is drowned instantly by a loud crashing noise.

“Please tell me that wasn't the Teleduv,” Hunk whispers, as if praying, and then they're all bolting into action, racing down the hallway after Shiro and Allura. Pidge takes one look over their shoulder at Matt's pod, before they, too, speed off.

They're all about halfway to the control room when Coran's voice crackles to life over the intercom system: “Something hit the castle! I think it was a ship of some sort, and I'm bringing it into the hangar.”

Instantly, their destination changes. Allura continues on to meet Coran, but Shiro darts in a different direction, leading the way. The four paladins emerge into the hangar moments later, bursting into the mostly empty room save for a tiny shuttle pod at its center, haphazardly placed from the rough landing.

For a heartbeat, everyone freezes, catching their breath. But then Keith feels it—the way his blood calls forward, and his bones ache with longing—and before he knows what he's doing, he's stumbling forward with a breathless keen of need because Lance is calling him, and thus nothing else matters.

“Keith!” Shiro calls, worry lacing his tone, and then he's jogging to catch up.

Keith's claws scrabble for purchase against the surface of the pod, and he can just make out the fuzzy shape of a body he knows so, so well, no matter how foreign the touch of the druids has made it seem. Keith makes another high-pitched, distressed noise, and then Shiro's helping him unlatch the goddamn pod door and finally he can hold Lance again and—

The cover falls off his with a hiss of compressed air. Lance gasps, drawing in wild breaths of air, and shoots forward, scrambling to get out of the shuttle. He whirls to face Shiro and Keith, fear dancing in his eyes, and Keith tastes it on his own tongue, feels it flutter under his own skin because what Lance feels is also Keith's to bear.

Pidge gasps, half-tearful and half-worried.

Lance's frantic gaze falls on Keith as he steps forward in attempt to get to his mate, to care for, to offer anything he can give, and die trying to acquire anything he cannot.

But Lance lifts a hand, glances down at it with a terrified expression, and then suddenly Keith is thrown half-way across the room from the force of... Something. Something he can't see, like Lotor's magic.

Lance's hand drops to his side.

And then he drops to the floor.

Keith is by his side in an instant, ignoring the pain in his back, cradling Lance into his arms and sobbing against his hair.

 _You came back, you came back_.

 

 

 

Keith and Pidge lean against each other as they wait in the medbay. Pidge is slumped against Keith's shoulder, with a blanket wrapped around them, finally giving in to the pull of sleep after the events of the day. Keith's still reeling, himself, but at this point he's just letting the waves carry him along rather than fighting the tides.

So he leans back, tilts his head against the wall, and _breathes_.

The gentle rise and fall of Pidge's chest should lull him into unconsciousness, but it refuses to come, as if knowing Lance is so, so near, he can't let himself risk missing when he emerges from the pod.

So he waits, in the silence and the almost-dark, listening to the hum of his headband and the castle and the beep of the healing pods.

It's the sudden flash of color that tricks Keith into thinking he's fallen asleep, but even as he's berating himself for doing so, he finds himself blinking, and the weight of Pidge's body against his confirms he's indeed in the conscious present. But the vision remains in his mind's eye: the dim confines of a room, glinting purple in the light of a Galra ship, the footsteps of soldiers echoing through the halls.

Keith is just a bystander, here, looking on as he sees Lance, slumped in the corner of the small cell, staring blearily forward at the crackling electricity of the bars enclosing the space. Keith takes a moment to focus on Lance in the healing pod, finding it hard to separate the images in his head from the images he draws from soundwaves, but all he can manage to notice is the slight pinch to Lance's brow as he dreams.

Keith instinctively frowns, but he lets Lance's mind overtake his, and feels himself be swept along in the shared memory.

The world is hazy, but whether that's because of Lance's recollection of the scene or the incomplete connection of their bond, Keith isn't sure. There's a moment of eerie silence, and then Keith hears the tell-tale pound of boots against metal, the drag of something along the ground.

“Let me go,” hisses a voice, distinctly venomous in its pleading.

“You're lucky Haggar only gave you one round,” grunts another. “She should have killed you on the spot.”

The soldiers come into view, dragging a familiar-looking body, thin but lean out of necessity, eyes flashing bright out of indignation, almond-colored hair soft in the low light, though now it's far longer than that of the Pidge Keith knows. Because this isn't Pidge—this is Matt, long hair wild as it falls around his face, lips twisted into a snarl as he's tossed into the cell opposite of Lance's.

A flash of recognition stabs through Keith, but it's not his. Lance scrambles up as soon as the soldiers are gone, stumbling on his way towards the bars, and he ends up a bit too close for comfort before he pulls back to wave frantically at Matt. “Pidge? Pidge, it's me, Lance! Are the others here? How did they get you? God—do they have Keith?”

Matt's expression pulls into something puzzled as he recovers from being thrown into the cell. “Who's Pidge?”

Hurt flows through Keith, a certain kind of betrayal when Lance doesn't recognize the truth and only feels pain as a result. “Pidge, it's me. It's Lance.”

“I don't know who you are.”

“Did—were you... not looking for me?” Lance voice cracks with emotion.

“I—”

“Matt!” It's a hiss of a whisper in the shadows of the room, the flowing robes that set both Keith and Lance instantly on edge, but Matt, on the other hand, relaxes as the druid approaches.

“Ilid!” Matt cries, though hushed. “You have to get me out. I have orders from Lotor.”

“Fuck, okay, okay,” Ilid throws his hood back and pulls the doctor's mask from his face, rubbing tiredly at his brow. He casts a glance sideways as if an afterthought that anyone might find him. “We need a distraction.”

“Anyone strong enough to break out?” Matt asks, drawing close to the bars to peer down the hallway, lined with cells.

“Anyone that is, Haggar has already broken.” Ilid's expression sours, as if the name of the head druid tastes bitter on his tongue. His gaze trails down the hallway, and then flicks across, at Lance. “Unless... Hey, Matt, how do you feel about going back in a body bag?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“I don't mean dead.”

“Oh,” Matt says, and then grins. “You have a plan?”

Ilid nods, making his way towards Lance's cell. He reaches out, presses his hand against a console and kills the electric light of the bars before flinging druid magic against the locks, and the metal screeches harshly as they open.

Lance's eyes go wide with fear and he stumbles backwards.

Ilid sends him an apologetic expression. “Sorry, kid,” he says, and then raises his hand, darkness snapping between his fingers like the striking heads of snakes.

Lance shakes his head, whimpers, and raises his hands up defensively.

In the next moment, too many things happen at once.

Ilid's magic fires. Lance shrieks, and the air around him seems to shimmer and darken interchangeably for a moment, before it bursts forward in spirals, a hurricane of fear-induced black magic forced into Lance's hands by druid torture.

Ilid utters a rapid, “Holy shit,” and manages to get his hands up and shield himself using his own magic, but he's still pushed half-way across the hallway from the force.

Matt isn't so lucky.

He's thrown hard against the far wall of his cell, and crumples to the ground, where he stays in a heap, unmoving.

Lance's terrified eyes dance between Ilid's surprised gaze and the broken tangle of Matt's body, and then he cries out.

A moment of silence—and then Keith hears that same cry in real time, and he's scrambling up, half-heartedly attempting to lower Pidge down carefully, but they splutter awake anyway, and Keith can't find it in him to bother with them. Not when Lance is here and awake, and the hiss of the healing pod is double the confirmation that Keith needs to be near him _now_.

Keith's heartbeat is rapid in his chest as Lance collapses forward on him, clutching wildly at Keith's limbs, scrambling for purchase in the terrifying consciousness of the world. Keith forces a purr through his body, stuttering and broken, but he holds Lance tight. He's shaking in Keith's arms, crying out in pain or fear, and Keith feels his body react to it like it's his own.

His back burns with the cold touch of metal. Fear simmers in his blood. Lance pushes him away with one hand, while still clinging to him with the other.

 _I'm here, I'm here. You're safe,_ Keith chants over their bond, trying to fight against the unchecked waves of emotion from Lance, because he's not enough in his right mind to hold back. The proximity, the fear-scent on Lance, the way Keith's fingers brush carefully over the back of his neck and Lance cries out and pulls away—it's all so, so much, heavy in the room.

“K-Keith,” Lance whimpers.

“Breathe,” Keith whispers back. “Just breathe. You're safe. I've got you.”

It takes a while, but Lance's body eventually steadies against the tremble ingrained in his bones. When he seems relatively stable, Pidge slips themselves under Keith's arm, wrapping tightly but carefully around Lance.

“It's good to have both my missing brothers back,” they choke out.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, and then tosses his head back and laughs, like Pidge had done earlier that day. Borderline hysterical and brokenly happy. “I can't—I can't believe. Lance, fuck, Lance. I was so scared.”

“You felt it too,” Lance says. It's not a question.

“Yeah,” Keith says, and buries his face in Lance's hair, where his body is slumped low enough against Keith that he actually can do that. “I did. What the fuck did they do to you Lance?”

“I—I don't k-know,” Lance gasps, and his fingers dig painfully into Keith's sides. “I've—I've hurt people, I— _Pidge_. Pidge, fuck, fuck, I'm so sorry. _Pidge_.”

“Lance?” Pidge asks, a little wary but still clinging to him. “Lance, what's wrong?”

“Matt—Matt, they had Matt—I saw him—I thought he was you—and... And—I—oh God—” Lance chokes on a distraught noise, caught between a sob and a call for help.

Keith runs his fingers along Lance's side soothingly. “It's okay, Lance. Matt's alive. I know, I know what you saw, but it's okay. We have Matt. He's here; he's in a pod. You're both safe.”

Pidge extracts themselves carefully slowly from the hug. “What.”

“I h-hurt Matt,” Lance manages. “Or worse, I—”

“He's fine,” Keith soothes.

“He's not fine!” Pidge snaps.

Lance sobs, clutching at Keith, and Keith adjusts to hold more of Lance's weight against him, before aiming a growl at Pidge.

“No—don't you dare!” Pidge screeches at him. “You're telling me that my brother might be stuck in a healing pod indefinitely just because Lance did more of his magic bullshit? He hit me with it, and I was fine! So what the _fuck_ did you do to my brother?”

“I'm—sorry,” Lance chokes out.

“It wasn't his fault,” Keith snarls.

“And how do you know?” Pidge growls back. “When was the last time your bond was actually reliable? It sure didn't fucking help us find Lance! How did he even get here? How do we know he didn't turn to their side like you predicted?”

“Shut up, Pidge!” Keith shouts, before he can stop himself.

“You—w-what?” Lance says, and tries to stand on his own feet to pull away from Keith. He manages to partially succeed, leaning his weight against the circle of Keith's arms to put some distance between them, but still not strong enough to hold himself up.

Keith sucks in a breath, feels weariness drag on him. “I saw what the druids did to you—I wasn't sure—I couldn't be sure how much of it was true.”

“Keith, is everything okay?” Shiro asks from the doorway. “Lance, you're awake. Are—”

“No, it's not,” growls Pidge. “I might be losing my brother forever because of him.” They point viciously at Lance.

“Pidge,” Shiro scolds. “We're all worried about Matt, but that's no reason to blame Lance.”

“No, I—I—did that to him—whatever t-that is,” Lance whispers.

“Oh,” Shiro breathes. “Shit, okay. Let's... Let's at least...” He seems at a loss. “Lance, you need rest. Let's get you settled, and we'll deal with this in the morning. Pidge, come on. You need to sleep in a real bed.”

“But—”

“I'll come back and keep an eye on him, I promise,” Shiro says. It's softened, in the same way he cares so much for the team. Because long ago, Matt was a dear friend, too. Keith wonders how the ache in Shiro's heart compares to that of Pidge's.

“...Okay,” Pidge finally says. “Okay.”

Despite the exhaustion in his bones, Keith doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he sits against the wall, and listens to Lance's breathing as his head rests in Keith's lap.

 

 

 

Lance wakes shivering, and Keith smooths his fingers through Lance's hair, careful to keep his claws from scraping against his scalp. “You're safe,” he breathes, and offers his hand towards Lance for him to clutch at. His grip is tight enough to hurt, but Keith allows Lance to cling to him as he rides out the panic, just dodging that precipice of terrifying from which there's no coming back for a long while.

Keith eases him through it, with soft promises of kindness and warmth.

Eventually, Lance whispers, “Did you sleep?”

Keith brushes hair from Lance's forehead as he blinks up at him, eyes wide. “No.”

“You didn't have to...”

“I wouldn't have been able to sleep, anyway,” Keith says, and shrugs. “I haven't gotten much at all since you left.”

Lance bites his lip, and gently brushes Keith's hand away so he can sit up. Keith finds his attention draw towards the metal just peeking over the collar of the healing pod suit. It makes something ache within him.

“Something's wrong,” Lance says, turning to him. “You're upset.” Then he laughs bitterly without giving Keith a chance to reply. “Who am I fucking kidding, of course you are. I'm a monster.”

“Lance,” Keith says, and his eyes flick towards Keith, fear and guilt. “You're not a monster. They are.”

“Aren't I part of them, now?” Lance retorts.

“Is Shiro?”

Lance ducks his head, wraps his arms around himself defensively, and shuffles back, tangling his legs in the blanket. “No,” he admits.

“Then you aren't either. You had to convince me once that I was good, and if I need to, I'll do the same for you.”

“I hurt you,” Lance utters, and then takes a shuddering breath. “I don't know why I did those things. Why I said those things.”

“Blue said there was something wrong with you. We never noticed,” Keith explains softly. He reaches out to rest a hand over Lance's knee under the blanket, but Lance flinches, and Keith instantly pulls back. “Sorry—sorry.”

Lance draws his knees up, curls around them and rests his chin against them. “Everything just felt like it was getting worse, even when it was fine. I couldn't let things go. Couldn't relax at all. I don't—I don't know, but it's not an excuse. I was terrible to you.”

“Yeah, and you got tortured for it. You don't deserve punishment for something that wasn't your fault, even if it was bad. Lance, you don't owe anything to me,” Keith says. “Not even an apology.”

Lance nods slowly. “I owe one to Pidge.”

Keith fights against the growl in his chest. “It wasn't your fault. I saw it. While you were in the pod. I saw that dream. Memory. Whatever. It was the Blade of Marmora, not you.”

“The what?”

Keith shakes his head. “We'll catch you up later. It's... How we got Matt in the first place. But my point is shitty things happen. And I think we both need time to recover from this one, but... I'm—I'm just glad to have you back. I missed you.”

Lance sends him a soft, sad smile. “I wish I could say the same. I was too out of it most of the time to know what was happening. But the memories stuck.” He laughs, high-pitched and forced. “Nightmare material for the rest of my life.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Lance worries his lip between his teeth, and then draws back with a gasp when he bites down too hard. “...No.”

“Okay,” Keith says. “Can... can I touch you? Not—just—I want to hold you.”

Lance stays silent for a moment, and Keith feels the indecision leak over their bond. Then, slowly, he nods. “My back,” he blurts, as Keith eases closer over the bed. “Be careful. It's still sore, kinda. I don't know if it will ever...”

“I'll be careful, I promise,” Keith says, and settles himself next to Lance, leaning against the wall. He starts by reaching for Lance's hands, threading their fingers together, and coaxes him closer, until Lance has his legs splayed over Keith's lap and is resting his head on Keith's shoulder. Keith noses along the crown of his hair, and then lets himself breathe deep, the smell of sweat and dirt almost masking the scent he knows so well, but it's _there_. Lance is there.

“I love you,” Keith breathes, because it's written on his bones, flows in his blood, all he can taste on his tongue, and yet he still needs to say it.

Lance swallows. “I—”

“It's okay,” Keith says, when Lance chokes on the words. “It's okay. I—you came back. That's all that matters. That's all I need. You came back for me.”

“I was sent back.”

Keith freezes. “What?”

“I don't know why.” Lance squeezes his eyes shut. “They let me go—I don't—I don't—I can't—”

“Shh, shh,” Keith soothes. “Breathe. You can tell me another time.”

But Lance is wrapping himself around Keith as close as he can, and then floods their bond. Keith feels the rush of sight in his mind, and then he's looking up at Lotor, white hair and Altean markings glowing in the purple light. For a moment, Keith marvels that he shouldn't exist— _how_ is he Altean?

 _“I'm sorry, Lance. You don't deserve what they did to the Champion or my brother,”_ he says, and then closes Lance in the shuttle that he arrived on the castle with.

Keith takes a deep breath, carefully tightens his hold on Lance. “What does that mean?”

“I—don't know,” Lance chokes out. “Keith, can I... Please.”

Lance's intention floods against Keith, and before he can even think about saying no, Keith is lifting his arm to his lips, biting down on the skin and ignoring the sting of pain until he tastes blood. He offers it to Lance, and with shaking fingers, Lance carefully presses Keith's arm to his mouth, shuffling in Keith's lap to get a better angle as he drinks.

It's intimate in a way that doesn't require much touch—enough that it allows Lance the comfort of feeling _whole_ and _safe_ and _home_ without triggering the dark memories of being under Haggar's knife. Keith feels wetness against his skin, and for a moment, he thinks Lance is pressing hard enough for the blood to leak from between his lips, but no, Lance's tears are falling against his arm, and Keith makes a distressed noise.

Lance pulls back instantly, looking horrified, tears running new tracks down his face. “Did—”

“You're fine,” Keith says, quick to assure. “Sorry—I... You were crying.”

“Oh,” Lance breathes. He glances down at Keith's arm, still bleeding.

“Go ahead,” Keith offers.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Lance whispers, and his head ducks down.

Keith lets his free hand curl around Lance's hip, thumb rubbing circles over the material of the suit. Lance is distinctly open across their bond, sharing the mental high with Keith, and Keith is grateful because he probably couldn't bring himself to ask Lance to allow his skin to be marred with more scars than it already is.

There must be so many that Keith has to acquaint himself with, so many marks that are foreign on his lover's skin: the thin slices of knives, the jagged rips of claws, all healed over in faintly raised scars by quintessence.

Keith still feels the ghost touch of the blade across the bite mark he used to mate Lance.

“Can I—well, not look, but... Can I see you?” Keith finally asks, voice soft as the touch of his fingers on Lance's hip. “I want—I want to see the damage they did.”

Lance pulls back, and shrinks away slightly. “ _Why_?”

Keith is in the middle of licking over the puncture wounds on his arm. _Because... I'm—well, for one, I need you to know that I'm still absolutely in love with you regardless. And I need to count how many heads I'm going to tear, because for each mark they put on you, I'm going to fucking murder another druid._

Lance looks at him with a wide gaze, and Keith lowers his arm now that it's no longer bleeding. “I've already seen what your back looks like. Red showed me. At least... I presume that much of the premonition was true. Sometimes nightmares interfere with what she's trying to give me.”

Lance hesitates, and Keith feels it over their bond, the way the thought of others seeing how broken he is makes him feel sick. “I—I owe you this much, right?”

“You don't have to,” Keith replies, though he can't mask the slight disappointment that flashes through him.

“No, no,” Lance says, biting his lip and then growing more confident. “I trust you.”

Keith's heart almost breaks. _I trust you_.

Lance is so open in the way he says it, and Keith feels his chest swell with emotions, predominantly relieved affection for the boy he's sold his heart to forever.

“Besides, you probably felt most of these,” Lance adds, reaching around for the zipper on the back of the suit. “Ugh—can you...?”

Keith reaches for the zipper and begins easing it down, slow enough that Lance has plenty of time to back out of this. Part of him is decidedly happy when Lance allows him to undo it down to between his shoulder blades, and then further. “I... Actually, the team stuffed me in a pod towards the end. When Haggar cut the mating mark. Plus I needed the rest.”

The suit falls away from one of Lance's shoulders as Keith gets the zipper down to his waist. Carefully, he peels the fabric away from Lance's arms, until Lance can wriggle out of the upper half completely, and it pools over his lap.

Keith takes in the damage done to Lance. His chest is littered with new scars, skin that was once smooth under Keith's fingertips now raised with painful memories of nights with looming bird masks and grating voices. Keith doesn't realize he's reached out to touch along Lance's stomach until Lance sucks in a breath.

“Sorry,” Keith gasps, recoiling.

“No,” Lance whispers. “You... you can touch. Just be careful. Slow?”

“Okay,” Keith says, swallowing, and allowing himself to brush the pads of his fingers over Lance's skin. He trails upward, tracing scars as he goes, until he reaches Lance's shoulder, where the mating mark sits with a single slash across it. Keith feels it warm under his fingertips, ignorant of the mar across its beauty, because even though it was never inherently so, now that it's damaged, Keith realizes how beautiful he had found it. It still draws to him, but now it's also scarred with the memory of pain.

“I'm going to kill Haggar,” Keith growls.

“You might not have to,” Lance breathes.

Keith's eyebrows shoot up. “Did you—”

“I'm not sure. But I think she triggered my powers, and it surprised even her. I hurt her, at least. Pidge was right. Her arm is Galra tech, now.”

Keith nods, and goes back to ghosting his fingers over Lance's skin like a man in a trance. He dips his hand over the curve of Lance's shoulder, down his back slightly, but avoids the veins of Galran metal embedded into the skin.

“Does it hurt?” Keith asks.

Lance shifts in his lap, stretches his arms out experimentally. “Kinda. It's like it's sore. And it's cold.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes. “I've felt that, when they were...” He lets himself trail off, because Lance doesn't need reminders of what's been done to him. The marks are already enough. “Can I touch...?”

A moment's deliberation, and then Lance takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Keith reaches out, brushing the softest of touches over one of the veins of material. Unlike how it feels on Lance, it's warm under his fingers, almost the same as body temperature, in the same way Shiro's prosthetic is almost like flesh. Lance shivers under the touch, and after a few more exploratory movements, Keith pulls back.

“I should...” Lance starts, and rubs wearily at his face. “I should shower. I feel gross.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“I... um... Maybe? Can you stay in here?”

“Of course,” Keith replies, and draws Lance close enough to press a kiss to his temple. “Anything.”

“I don't deserve you,” Lance breathes.

Keith gives him a soft smile. “You're stuck with me.”

Lance's mouth falls open in surprise, quiet shock as his own sentiment is echoed back at him, from all that time ago. He seems to steady himself against the surprise, and then begins to extract himself from Keith's lap.

“You'll stay, right?” he asks, just before he disappears into the bathroom.

“Always,” Keith confirms. _Always_.

 _Thank you_.

 

 

 

When Allura had said earlier that day that they would be warping to a safer region of the universe, Keith wasn't sure where they were going, and perhaps it was that unexpectedness that made him so pleasantly surprised when the Castle of Lions landed on Balmera X-95-Vox. Hunk took one look outside the open doors of the castle and then sent an apologetic grin back at Lance before he ducked out.

Keith was the one who noticed Allura's sly smile.

The others took longer to catch up, perhaps intentionally, to give Shay and Hunk some moments to themselves.

All of them except Pidge.

They'd refused to leave the medbay, even going as far to snap angrily at Shiro and Allura both, no remorse for their actions. They won't even let Lance or Keith in the room, and presumably they still sit where the team left them: curled in a blanket next to Matt's pod, waiting.

Hunk is already in the shallow cave, at Shay's shoulder as they inspect the prepared stew. Allura must have sent a message that they were coming. For a moment, the two whisper quietly between themselves, and then Shay looks up with a startled expression that blooms into a wide smile.

And then her gaze lands on Keith, and her eyes go wide.

Oh, fuck—she didn't know.

“Princess,” Shay says, “You said there had been developments in the team, but I did not realize...”

“Nice to see you again, Shay,” Keith says, feeling awkward as shame for his own appearance washes over him. “Well, uh, _see_ isn't... Quite correct anymore I guess.”

“I don't understand,” says Shay.

“About the ears or the seeing?”

Shay cocks her head at him, and then laughs softly. “Both, I suppose.”

“Keith is half Galra,” Allura supplies.

“And blind,” Keith finishes.

Lance leans against Keith, and Keith automatically slips his hand around Lance's waist, steadying him.

Shay's eyebrows shoot up, and she sends a questioning look to the rest of the team.

“Oh yeah,” pipes in Hunk, after deciding the stew is satisfactory. “They _finally_ stopped pining and did the thing.”

Shay laughs. “I am glad.” In a few strides, she's next to them, wrapping Keith in a tight, sudden hug, and then including Lance in the embrace, since they're so close together.

Keith feels Lance's fear shudder through him, and he smooths his fingers over Lance's hip to soothe him. After a few heartbeats, Lance awkwardly wraps his free arm around Shay in return, though his body is still stiff.

“Ah, I am sorry,” Shay says. “I did not mean to startle you, but it has been some time since we last saw you.” She pulls back, a large hand resting on Lance's shoulder and a soft grin playing on her lips. “I hope you are well?”

“That's, um... It's a relatively term,” Lance says, and manages a watery smile back at her.

Shay's brow furrows. “What is that noise? It sounds as if it comes from Keith.” She reaches forward, fingers a bit hesitant to touch his ears, but curiosity blooming in her gaze. “What is this?”

“Pidge made an echolocation device for me,” Keith explains. “You can hear it? The others can't.”

“It is faint,” responds Shay. “A gentle hum. Like a song with no tune.”

“Yeah. It's how I get around,” Keith explains.

Shay's gaze dances over the gathered paladins as she pulls her hand away. “Where is Pidge?”

Silence falls over the team, an unspoken question hanging in the air as to whether they should answer Shay.

Allura finally breaks the quiet. “Perhaps we should talk about this after we've settled.”

“Of course,” Shay says, backing up and gesturing to the circle of stones. They'd once been bare, but now they are blankets of woven grass over them, a slight comfort against the hard of the stone.

The team takes their places: Lance and Keith squished together, Lance still slightly rigid, but beginning to grow accustomed to the companionable presence of Shay. Shiro settles on Keith's other side, then Allura and Coran. Hunk helps Shay to serve dinner before sitting next to Lance, Shay on his other side, completing the circle.

Eventually, they will go down and mingle with the other Balmerans, but since they first met Shay, she's moved closer to the surface, where the stars are far closer, and it has become tradition to meet with her, like some gatekeeping goddess before venturing deeper into the Balmera.

For a soft moment, everyone eats, enjoying the new flavors. It's not the best, and Keith still hasn't found anything that compares to earth fruit, but it's something different than the castle's food goo, and the team isn't picky.

Hell, Keith has never had the right to be picky.

Lance's shoulder presses against his, a gentle whine of emotion flowing over their bond, and Keith settles a hand on Lance's thigh. “Sorry,” he breathes, trying to steer his minds towards less depressing thoughts, at least for Lance's sake.

“You should visit more often,” Shay comments to the circle. “Too much has happened since we last spoke.”

Shiro barks a laugh, a little bitter. “Yeah, too much.”

“We actually would like to request to stay here for a short time,” Allura informs. “We all need a bit of a break.”

“Of course,” Shay replies easily. “I am sure the Balmera would not mind.”

“Thank you, Shay.”

“Now, please, tell me what has happened with Pidge. Your somber expressions speak of bad things, but your voices do not hold the pain of a lost family member.”

“It's actually the opposite problem,” Hunk says softly. “We found her brother. Or—were given her brother, but technicalities. Anyway, he's not... Okay.”

“He's in a coma,” Shiro specifies. “After a blast from druid magic—”

“Don't make it sound better than it is,” Lance interrupts vehemently. “Matt's in a coma because I attacked him.”

“Lance,” Shiro sighs.

“I am sorry,” Shay says. “Which of these is true?”

“Both,” inputs Keith. “The Galra captured Lance and did something to him. Started turning him into a druid.”

Shay nods slowly. “If I may propose—perhaps, you should leave him here. The Balmera heals...”

 _That's not the whole truth, either,_ Lance growls at Keith over the bond, ignoring Shay while Allura and Shiro take over the conversation.

_Enough. We don't blame you._

_Pidge does._

“Lance,” Keith growls suddenly, startling the others in the circle. “Stop blaming yourself.”

“But it's my fault,” Lance protests weakly. He sighs, and leans his forehead against Keith's shoulder, his next words mumbled into Keith's shirt. “I don't know how not to.”

Shay makes a humming noise. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning, since the last time I saw you.”

And so they do.

Storytelling with the team of paladins, even without Pidge, is an event filled with interruptions and different perspectives. It's Allura's lilting voice, Shiro's soft chuckle versus Hunk's bellied laugh. It's Lance's soft smiles, and now, narrowly dodging pain that he and Keith both know far too well. It's Keith coaxing him back into teasing, soft and gentle, and no-nonsense when he has to relay the darker experiences they've been through. He spares Shay the gory details.

They talk long into the night, and even though they had intended to visit the rest of Shay's family, it grows too late too soon, and the team ends up stumbling back to the castle, sated and finally allowing themselves to relax for a moment, even if nothing was truly resolved.

Keith and Lance pass the medbay on their way to their rooms, and catch a glimpse of Pidge's poisonous glare over their knees, pressed against their chest.

It strikes sadness in both of them, but when they collapse into Keith's bed, Lance allowing Keith to curl protectively around him, Pidge is forgotten. In the warmth of blankets and each other's arms, they finally begin to remember what safe feels like.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: mentions of past torture/panic attacks, canon-typical mechanical lion violence, mentions of injury, body modifcation (results, not the act of)


	15. Night Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reward for finishing supernova big bang claims, I decided the best course of action would be to stay up another 30 mins proofing this. Good time management there, kiddo.

“ _Friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues. Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent...”_

\- William Shakespeare, _Much Ado About Nothing_

 

Keith gasps for air, body tense and unresponsive to his mind's requests. Sometime in his sleep, he fell away from where he was curled around Lance and now lays on his back, with his arm trapped under Lance's body. As he attempts to slow his breathing, unsure of why he woke up in the first place, he realizes why he must have moved away from Lance—his mate is twitching against the bed, limbs flinging wildly occasionally as he dreams.

As the sleep paralysis fades, the fear does not, seeping into Keith's bones and draining his will to fight, until he's futilely squeezing his eyes closed against the vision.

The room spins, and Keith feels a groan rise in his throat.

The purple lights of a Galra ship bleed into his head from Lance's dreams. It begins slowly, and he thinks he's seeing through Lance's eyes this time, instead of standing in as a bystander. A long table, and he sits at the head, the high-backed chair pressed against him, or perhaps he's pressing hard against it, trying to escape from the scene.

Across the room, a door slides open, and an increasingly familiar face appears, white hair tied back in in a high ponytail, a few braids looping from his temples until they meld into the flow of smooth locks. Lotor strides forward with purpose, and Keith's body seizes—he tries to run, to fight back, anything—but this is Lance's memory, and nothing happens except that he blearily rises to his feet.

Lotor's eyes glint with mischief as he approaches, fingers trailing along Lance's shoulder and down his arm, sending goosebumps all across Keith's skin, and then he draws Lance's fingers up and presses a soft kiss to the back of his hand. It's intimate, soft in the way Keith and he always are, like a promise to come or a promise kept, and Keith bristles, instincts kicking in to defend and claim what is his.

But Lance just falls back into the chair, dropping unceremoniously, like his limbs are too heavy for him to carry. Lotor, meanwhile, perches elegantly at the opposite end of the table. A wave of his hand, and then suddenly servants are wheeling in silver trays, shimmering metal that sends splays of purple light scattering across Lance's vision. They set a plate before Lance, load it with relatively edible-looking food, place a decorated glass on the table in front of him, fill it with a sparkling dark liquid.

“I must say,” Lotor drawls, as Lance begins to eat with slow, robotic movements, refusing to look at the prince. “You are the most one of the most exquisite creatures I have encountered, and I have seen many. No wonder that runt has his scent all over you. Except, he's not pretty enough for you.”

Lance ignores him.

Lotor chuckles. “I find you interesting, Lance. I won't hurt you. I'd like you to be mine, if you're willing.”

A steady silence, and Lotor watches his drink swirl absently in his glass. “I will give you time.”

The scene fades, and from there, it's a flashing montage of stolen moments. Candlelit dinners between Lance and Lotor, with the prince's soft voice filling the silence, and as Lance's mind recovers, he manages some quiet responses. Simple words, echoes of meaning, and the fear begins to settle over him in a juxtaposition with the conditioned sense of comfort brought on by the fact that in Lance's broken existence, Lotor kept him _safe_.

Keith's blood boils.

There's the soft of a warm bed, relaxing under Lance's tired muscles, worn sore by being so worked up for so long that he physically could not relax.

Once, as Lance is drifting off, Lotor comes in voice bristling with the edge of a growl and a cup of something in his hands. He settles himself on the edge of the bed, rousing Lance with a caress to his shoulder. “I just found out what they did to you,” he hisses. “Why you're here. I brought you something to help you recover. It should rebalance your system some. Here, Kitten... Drink.”

He coaxes Lance up, raises the cup to his lips and watches as Lance tilts his head back to swallow. He runs his hand over Lance's free one, planted on the bed to hold him up, and Lotor is careful with his claws. “I am half-breed of Altean descent,” he begins in a soft whisper as Lance drinks. “If... If you wish for me to take on a different form, shapeshifting is something I have long mastered. I realize that you may have poor memories of my mother and father's appearances.”

Lance looks up at him as the drink warms his throat. “No,” he breathes in response. “This form is nice. Your hair is pretty.”

Surprise flickers over Lotor's face, and then the curve of his mouth slips into a soft smile. “Thank you,” he replies, and then:

He purrs.

Keith feels his throat tighten with a sob, unsure how to feel—he's not sure if he wants to know what happened. Sometimes blissful ignorance is best. The knowledge that Lance is his is secured in his heart, for now, but he can't be sure for how long if this continues along the path it seems to be heading.

The next vision blooms across his mind, and Lance, in the bed next to him, whimpers audibly. Keith wants to go to him, to wake him from the nightmares, but something in limbs refuses to follow through.

It's a near copy of the last, except this time, when Lotor enters the room, he sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a claw feather-light over Lance's bare shoulder. “Were you waiting for me?” he teases, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Lance's cheek.

Lance blinks the edge of sleep from his eyes, turning and sitting up slightly, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes. The sheet falls away as Lance hums questioningly at Lotor, waiting for an explanation for his visit.

But Lotor is frozen, gaze drawn to the bite mark on the shoulder that had been hidden by Lance's body. Something in the prince bristles, and Lotor growls viciously from somewhere deep in his chest. “No wonder you smelled like him,” Lotor hisses. “The son of a bitch mated you. Soiled my prize.”

Keith feels fear wash over him, set deep in his bones as Lance startles and scrambles to put distance between him and Lotor.

Snarling, Lotor grabs at Lance's arm, dragging him from the bed. Lance stumbles, landing awkwardly, and catches himself on the floor. “Get dressed or you go naked.”

Lance hurries to comply.

“The little pup just has everything now, doesn't he? The red lion, and a beautiful mate. Well, we'll see what it gets you, little brother, this mating bond of yours.”

Lotor's grip on Lance is iron, as he pulls him from the room, drags him until he finds a patrol of some Galra soldiers. “Take him to the druids. Tell my mother I found one of her lost pets.”

Lance wakes, screeching, thrashing wildly, and finally, _finally_ , Keith's muscles obey.

He wraps himself around Lance as best he can, trying to subdue his flailing limbs. He succeeds to some degree, but he can feel the fear brewing cold along Lance's back, where Keith's arm is still pressed against Lance.

“It's me, it's me,” Keith tries to assure. _Lance, you're safe, I promise_. Because he needs to calm Lance down before he sets off his magic again. _Lance, please. Repeat after me. Out loud._

“Lance,” Keith breathes, using his body weight to help pin Lance to the mattress. “Your name is Lance. Can you say that?”

A hiccup of sound, and shuddering breaths. _I can't—I can't—_

“C'mon, Love, try. Please.”

“M-my...” Another gasp for air. “...name—L-Lance.”

“Good,” Keith soothes, just like Shiro does. “Do you know who I am?”

“K-Keith.”

“That's good, very good,” Keith runs his hands down Lance's trembling sides. He's stopped struggling, but now he's simply shaking violently in Keith's arms. “On the count of three, we're going to take a deep breath, okay? Can you do that?”

Keith's not sure if Lance nods, but he feels hair brush across his temple where Lance's face is pressed close to his. “Ready? One, two... Three.”

Together they draw in air. Lance's attempt is shaky, but he follows as Keith breathes deep, holds for a heartbeat, and releases.

 _What do you need?_ Keith asks.

 _Hold me_ , Lance requests.

Keith instantly shifts back, pulling Lance with him, shuffling their bodies until Keith is pressed higher up against the pillows so that Lance can tuck his head under Keith's chin. He keeps his arms wrapped tight around Lance, but tries to be careful of his back, still unsure about how Lance will react to touch there.

“I've got you,” Keith whispers. “I've got you. He's not here. No one is. Just us.”

“He s-saved my life,” Lance breathes back, after they lay still for a few moments, Lance's body moving with the rise and fall of Keith's chest.

And then, it all catches up with Keith at once, now that Lance's panic attack is safely avoided. He feels himself freeze, but really he may or may not have just unintentionally ejected himself into the astral plane from the force of the sudden revelation.

“Holy motherfucking shit, I'm Lotor's brother. _I'm Zarkon's son_.”

 

 

 

If Keith wasn't about to have a mental breakdown, he might have been more wary of bursting into Allura's study unannounced, especially after he barely caught the sounds of soft whispering. Lance follows at a slower pace, since movement is still hurts sometimes, and that fact is the only thing that kept Keith from sprinting across the castle.

As soon as Lance had passed him his headband, he was scrambling up, gasping when everything flared onto his senses, and then lurching for the door to go... What? Scream at Allura?

Regardless of the actual meaning behind this revelation, it at least _feels_ important, the way the weight of blood ties lingers in Keith's body. And yet it all comes on so suddenly—never before had he had a family, never before Voltron, and yet somehow he's gained one in the span of moments. And it just so happens that he's the son of the universe's conqueror.

Needless to say, it's a lot to take in.

What's even more to take in is the way he opens the door to the sight of Shiro's back, Allura's hands splayed across his shirt, as Shiro straddles her lap in the desk chair.

Keith makes an incoherent screeching noise, startling them both, and Lance bursts into quiet laughter behind him.

“God, fuck—Shiro put your dick away, I'm having a crisis!”

Keith has the urge to walk over there and pull the black paladin away, but that would be entirely uncalled for. Then again, he's borderline panicking, and, okay, maybe a little irrational when crazy shit like this goes down. Wouldn't be the first time he's worked out unnecessary energy by sparing with Shiro.

At least Shiro has the decency to look guilty, as he scrambles from on top of Allura and stumbles to regain his balance, catching himself with the desk.

“Keith,” Allura says, seemingly unfazed, though there's a slightly breathless quality to her voice. “What can I help you—Lance!”

Keith focuses on Lance just in time to catch the tail end of a vague gesture, where Lance was putting his index finger through the circle of his opposite hand. Shiro looks mortified.

“I'm Zarkon's son,” Keith blurts without preamble, and that brings both Allura and Shiro's attention to him.

There's a silence that falls over the room, except for the quiet humming of Keith's headband, only audible to his ears.

Allura opens her mouth, and then closes it. She tilts her head to the side curiously before finally speaking. “Forgive me, but... Does this matter?”

Keith fumbles for an answer. “No? Yes? I don't know—I'm kinda freaking out.”

“With reason,” Allura states. “But unless you intend to betray us for your blood relatives, which I highly doubt, I don't see why you feel the need to inform us.”

Keith swipes a hand wearily over his face. So maybe not sleeping at all the other night is starting to catch up on him, even after a night of relative peaceful rest. “I just—I—God—I don't know how to process this.”

“It doesn't change who you are, Keith,” Allura says.

Keith groans. Shiro hasn't said anything—and the last time Keith's Galra genes were up for discussion— “Shiro? How—Are—” Keith breaks off with an indecipherable noise, and then squeaks: “Help.”

Shiro, damn him, laughs. Now that the embarrassment from being caught making out with Allura has faded, he's completely on task, and apparently as unfazed as the princess is. “Allura is right. It doesn't change you. Unless you've managed to inherit some of Zarkon's powers, which could be—well—helpful, at the least.”

Keith leans against the doorway.

“It's okay, Keith,” Shiro assures, and he makes his way over, drawing Keith into a tight hug.

Keith allows himself to be pulled into it, breathing in the scent of familiarity and, faintly, perfume. He scrunches up his nose and draws his face away from Shiro's shoulder, grimacing. “You smell like Allura.”

Shiro pushes him away, not hard enough to actually be aggressive. “Okay, fine, you don't want comfort. I get it.”

Lance snickers. “Who needs Zarkon when you have Space Dad right here?” he asks, gesturing at Shiro with a wave of his hand.

Shiro turns to glower at him, and after a moment it fades into an exasperated sigh. “We're going to do some light training in one varga. Lance, you don't have to—I don't want to strain you.”

“Thanks,” Lance breathes, and in a quiet admission of weakness, actually looks thankful.

“Now get out. We have things to discuss.”

Lance waggles his eyebrows at Shiro.

“ _Get out_ ,” Shiro growls.

Keith goes for Lance's hand, pulling him away from the office because maybe, maybe he feels a _little_ bit sorry for Shiro, but mostly because he needs to panic some more elsewhere.

If he'd been told that this was where he would be in his life three years after being dragged into a war of his own race and the supposed legendary space lions, Keith would have had such a hard time believing it. And yet—Red chose him despite the fact he's Zarkon's son. Fuck, he's _Zarkon's son_. Does that make him Altean too? No—he shifts too well as a human... God, if it hadn't been for Lance—

Lance. Does he hate him?

They make it about ten steps before Keith freezes, actions catching up with his jackrabbit thought process as he turns towards Lance. “You knew,” he says. “You—what do you think?”

Lance gives a half-shrug, tilting his head down, though it actually does nothing to obscure Keith's makeshift vision. Maybe he's not trying to hide—maybe looking at Keith is too much. After all, the Galra have tortured Lance now, too, and he must feel far too intimately acquainted with the sight of Galra soldiers, and now Keith is even more a reminder of Lance's pain. Royal blood, he thinks bitterly. Yet what Lance had said about Lotor—

It hits Keith in the gut, and he realizes what it is that makes him sick to his stomach: jealousy. And somewhere, hiding underneath it, insecurity.

Because he promised himself to Lance, but Lance never did the same back.

“Stop it,” Lance snaps, and then looks up, as if horrified by his own words. He draws his hand from Keith's in order to hide his face. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles through his fingers. “I can... You're so open—with the bond, I mean—but... I feel like this is the first time I'm really feeling it. Everything before was just... Numb. Everything's still kinda numb.”

Part of Keith itches to reach out, because words aren't his strong suit, and pull Lance to him. At some point in their relationship, that might have been the solution, like desperate, devoted kisses in a Galra cell with only desolation to keep them company. But now, Lance is the more fragile of the two of them, after having a taste of Keith's original pain, and then left with a permanent mark, sprawling across his back, to remember it by.

Keith's scars might be mementos of his torture, but Lance's has become a _part of him_.

Keith's heart aches, the way things have changed because of the Galra.

Lance looks at him, a corner of his mouth crooked upward in a forlorn smile. “See— _that_. Is why it doesn't matter if you're Galra. That's why it doesn't matter if you're Zarkon's son or Lotor's brother or anything. Because you hate them as much as I do—maybe even more, because you love me so much that it hurts you to see the scars they left on me.”

Keith swallows. “Lance—I—can I—” _You know me more than anyone else does. More than I do_.

 _You make it easy_.

“It's okay,” Lance breathes, taking Keith's hand. He brushes a finger thoughtfully over the tips of Keith's claws, and then presses close, letting the warmth of their bodies mingle. Keith finds his back pressed against the wall, and Lance pressed against his chest just... Just holding.

Because falling for Lance, even after all they've been through, was easy. Loving Lance is easy, even if staying together isn't because the universe has never been on their side.

Lance presses his cheek against Keith's ear, breathing deep against his hair. “I missed you,” he says quietly.

“Did...” Keith's mouth is dry as he speaks into Lance's shoulder. “Did you feel anything for him?”

It goes without saying who Keith is speaking about, probably because Lance can read his thoughts over the mating bond anyway.

“Not like this,” Lance whispers, words caught in the moment between them. “Only you, Keith. Only you. I've only ever been in love with you.”

“Is that still true?”

“Always,” Lance breathes. “Everything's fucked up, and I don't know what I feel anymore—everything's distorted; the world is bland—but I've always been yours.”

“Okay,” Keith responds, nosing over Lance's shirt where the mating mark calls to him. He wonders if Lance's own body is aware of the way it's written on Keith's bones that Lance is now his sun, and he an orbiting planet. Lance is the center of all he does, the core of his emotions, the driving force behind his ambition.

The only thing keeping him going in this war.

Lance's breath hitches. “I'm so scared,” Lance gasps out. His grip tightens on Keith. “I'm so, so scared, Keith. But this—us—it finally feels _right_. I'm so sorry.”

Keith holds him, like fragile glass.

And as Lance breaks, shards cutting into Keith's skin, he's not afraid to bleed.

In fact, maybe it's what he needs, as Lance burrows his head against Keith's neck, mouths over the soft skin, and bites, hard and bruising until he finally breaks skin. It hurts, pain worse when blunt human teeth draw blood instead of Keith's sharp canines, but maybe, just maybe, Keith can let himself believe that Lance is marking him back. That finally, finally, their mating bond will be complete.

 

 

 

So Keith might have nicked himself on the wrist intentionally. They'd been training—lightly, like Shiro said, while Lance watched—and if Keith just so _happened_ to clip his arm with his hook sword? Well, then he could totally blame it on the fact that they were still relatively new, and it'd been a while since he worked with them, and maybe Shiro scolded him about getting more sleep, but it was overall a good plan.

Because Pidge was still guarding the medbay like an attack dog, and they couldn't just let Keith bleed out all over the floor, right?

Apparently they could.

So that's how Keith ends up sitting outside the medbay, leaning against the wall and Lance's shoulder, with his shirt vaguely soaked and sticky with blood as he presses it into his arm.

“I'm pretty sure I could have told you this wasn't going to work,” Lance murmurs, fingers curled into the fabric of Keith's pants.

Keith snorts, and peels the shirt away to inspect the damage. “So I might have underestimated how upset Pidge is.”

“I can fucking hear you,” Pidge snarls from inside the room. “Get the fuck out.”

“We're not in!” Keith calls back, a little vehement and feeling like a petulant child.

Pidge goes silent. With his echolocation, Keith can see them, still curled in a blanket next to Matt's pod, fabric draped over their head. He might not be able to see the pallor of their skin or the potential dark bags under their eyes, but he can see it in their expression that they've been crying. Because Keith has seen Pidge grow up, as watched as they grew out of their childlike wonder (though really, he wonders if Pidge, like himself, never really got that chance, when it was ripped away at such a young age). He's seen Pidge cry tears of anger and joy, and now: he sees it in the haggard, worn hunch of their body. He sees the tears of sorrow. Of mourning.

And part of him breaks.

But the rest of him is furious, because after all this time—after all they've been through—Pidge is turning their back on the team, and Lance, who has only ever striven to help fill the void that Matt left behind when he disappeared. Now that Matt's back, even with a broken body, Pidge has shoved them all out like they're no longer needed.

“Is this still going on?” Shiro asks as he approaches. He stands over Keith and Lance, looking down with a tired expression.

“Pidge starts screeching anytime I step in the room,” Keith retorts.

Shiro peers down at him. “Have you tried going in _without_ Lance?”

“Hey, hey,” Lance pipes up. He sounds cheerful, and Keith knows it's not quite fake, but it's not quite real either. Like Lance said he felt earlier—it's empty. “We're a package deal. You know—Keith and Lance—neck and neck.”

A ring of familiarity washes over Keith, and he furrows his brow, but then Shiro's crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at them both, and Lance snaps his jaw shut.

“Yes, I've tried,” Keith says, sighing. “They're mad at me too.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Pidge quips.

“Not talking to you!” Keith calls back with a huff.

“You're talking shit, that's what,” Pidge snarks.

“Keith!” Shiro scolds. “Get yourself together.”

“Ooh,” Pidge hums, and Keith hears the poison in their words, meant to be scalding where they're normally playful. “Dad's mad.”

“Pidge,” Shiro calls through the door. “You're not helping.”

“And I don't see any of you trying to help bring Matt back, so we're even.”

Nearly five years—five years Keith had spent with Shiro, before he disappeared. Five years that Keith had to memorize the man who taught him the world wasn't only filled with darkness, and then the past three as Voltron. And it's that intimacy that gives Shiro away, because even as he's letting out a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose with his Galra hand, Keith notices the way his body stiffens, the way the muscles around his mouth tighten into a harsher frown than necessary for simple frustration.

Shiro feels guilty, still, Keith realizes, and with the way his breath shudders through him when he prepares to go confront Pidge, maybe there's something more.

But it's gone before Keith can decipher it, and Shiro's striding into the medbay and settling himself next to Pidge, arms looped lazily over his knees.

“I don't want to talk,” Pidge grumbles, and pulls their blanket closer around them.

“I'm just here to make sure you don't freak out for two seconds while we let Keith grab a clean towel and some antiseptic, okay?”

Pidge glowers from under their makeshift hood. “Fine,” they grit out.

“Nice,” Lance whispers. “Spade Dad has the hookup.”

“I heard that, Lance,” Shiro huffs. “Stop calling me dad.”

Keith braces himself against the wall as he gets up, silently shuffling inside. Pidge pins him with an angry glower the entire time he's in the room, using his mouth to hold the clean towel while he stretches to reach a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages without straining his hurt arm.

As soon as he has the supplies, Shiro commands: “Take Lance and leave us alone. And be more careful next time.”

Keith gives a halfhearted flick of his ears in response, because his hands and his mouth are full so there's not much else he can do except maybe _look_ at Shiro, but that's a weird thing in and of itself because Keith hasn't had to move his head to see in a while now.

Except as he's leaving, Lance dutifully by his side, Keith hears the faint whisper of a thought. Keith freezes, mentally warning Lance to do the same.

_What?_

_I can hear them still_.

Lance peers at him, judging, but then Keith is feeding him the words he can make out, and Lance stops distracting him.

“Pidge, I realize this is...” Shiro sighs. “The past few months have been pretty wild. And I haven't been there for all of you, but as your leader and your friend I want you to know that we want Matt to recover just as much as you do.”

Pidge sniffles, burying their head against their knees, and refuses to reply.

“The Balmerans have offered to take him. Shay says the B—”

“No!” Pidge screeches, curling out of their ball to look at Shiro with a horrified expression. “I just g-got him back!” Their voice cracks on the declaration, heavy with emotion.

“I know,” breathes Shiro, looking pained himself. “But it would be a good idea, and I think it's what's best for Matt and for the team.”

Pidge's face turns vicious, lips curled back in a furious grimace, like the flash of wolves' teeth before the strike. “He's not your brother.”

“No,” Shiro says. “He's not, but that doesn't mean I don't care.”

“I'm his _family_ ,” Pidge growls, bitter and blazing. “It's my decision.”

“Pidge—”

“Get out, Shiro.”

Shiro looks taken aback.

“I said _get out_.”

Shiro stands, head lowered. He glances once at Matt, contained in glass and magic, and his fists clench uselessly at his sides. His words are as deadly as Pidge's orders: “Just because you're family doesn't mean you're the only one who loves him.”

And then Shiro's stalking from the room, and Keith doesn't react fast enough to bolt like he should have.

Shiro's expression is broken when he catches them, and Lance looks vaguely stricken at being caught. There's a moment when they're all deer caught in headlights, and then Shiro swallows shakily, turns, and walks the other way.

 

 

 

 _Watch your back_.

“Can you not,” Keith growls, and then proceeds to exactly _not_ watch his back, and then ends up sprawled across the training room floor after being hit in the ass by the training droid's staff.

Lance grins cheekily at him from where he sits, back propped against the wall.

And then his smile falters. Keith feels it crack through him.

Keith picks himself up, focused on Lance as he collects his bayard. “You okay?”

Lance makes a noncommittal noise.

“Hunk's new weapons are cool,” Lance observes quietly, dodging the impending mental shutdown by changing the subject, even though his tone remains hollow.

Keith lets his focus roam across the mostly-empty room, to where Hunk and Coran practice together. Pidge is still hiding in the medbay, Keith presumes, and Shiro... Is probably hiding with Allura. Keith hasn't spoken to him since he and Pidge fought. Keith's not sure if it's because Shiro had intended to keep his past romance a secret, or if he thinks this will change something between the team, or if Shiro is just far more broken up about Matt than Keith intentionally realized.

“Yup,” Keith agrees, finally responding to Lance. “Too fancy for me.”

“I think I might like them,” Lance replies casually, but there's an underlying fear hidden in his voice, the unsaid thought: _if_ he fights again.

“Do you want to practice?”

Lance worries his lip, gaze flicking over to where Coran helps Hunk with target practice with his cylinders. “I'm good, I think,” Lance says. “I don't—I don't wanna trigger anything.”

Keith pads over, dropping his bayard and grabbing a water pouch, downing some before he slips to the ground next to Lance. “You'll get it under control,” Keith assures.

Lance gives a halfhearted shrug. He splays one long leg over Keith's outstretched legs, absently knocking his foot against Keith's boots. “Maybe.”

For a moment, Keith sees a flash of recognition in his mind's eye:

Lance's gaze is bright with laughter, an oddly familiar scar across his cheekbone as he looks at Keith over his shoulder, the spray of water surrounding him as he wades deeper into the ocean. The glint of metal along his back is dull compared to the sunrise and the light in his eyes. Gone are the days of feeling empty; instead they are filled with family and friendship, and the soft memories that led to the golden ring on his finger.

It's an echo, but of words not yet spoken. The dart of Red's premonition is gone before Keith can fully grasp it.

“You will,” Keith promises, but he doesn't share the vision with Lance. It was too quick to properly process, anyway, so he instead tucks it away in his heart, hidden like a candlelight of hope for a better future.

“Teach me something in Galra,” Lance says suddenly. “You speak it, right?”

Keith's ear flick, surprise coloring his voice. “What?”

“I just... Where in the universe haven't they touched? I want to know _why—_ I want to understand.”

“I don't think one word in Galra will make much difference,” Keith says, though not without sympathy, because he gets it too. He wants to know the driving factor for all this death and destruction, because part of him needs to know if there's a motive for evil, or if it just exists.

“But maybe... I just... I dunno. Humor me,” Lance says, and let's his head fall against Keith's shoulder.

Keith scrunches up his nose. “It'll have to be something there isn't an English word for, otherwise the translator will pick it up... Um...” Keith feels his brow furrow even as he automatically allows his own head to tilt against the crown of Lance's hair. “Oh—hell, you might like this one: _sicar_.”

“ _Sicar,_ ” Lance repeats, rolling the 'R' slightly as he tastes the word on his tongue. “What does it mean?”

Keith turns and breathes in Lance's scent, basking in the moment. “It means 'to live and die searching for what you love.' The Galra are as brutal as they are swept away by their affection for their mates.”

“Oh,” hums Lance. He quiet for a moment, and then: “It makes me think of Pidge.”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers. “Me too. But I remember it most as how I felt when I was at the Garrison, after Shiro left. Red had already chosen me and I felt her but I was so lost... and then she led me to you.”

Lance snorts. “I thought I was the romantic.”

“So did I,” murmurs Keith. He presses a kiss to Lance's temple. “Do you want to know something in English that there isn't a word for in Galra?”

“What's that?”

“You miss your family,” Keith says softly. “You miss earth. Where you come from. We have no word for that. We wander and we move on, we make our homes where we are.”

“ _Homesick_ ,” Lance replies, a little sadly. “You don't have a word for 'homesick.'”

“No,” Keith says. “But it's also like _sicar_. This is what you're doing, Lance. You are living searching for the things you love, except you know exactly where they are, and instead you're searching for a way to keep them safe.”

Lance breathes out a sigh against Keith's neck. “I must have been a saint in a past life to somehow get you.”

Keith chuckles. “You're a savior in this one.”

“I can't believe it,” Lance says. “I can't believe you love me. I can't believe you mated me after we'd been dating for like—what—a month? I don't know. Time in space is weird.”

“In my defense,” Keith hums. “I have only ever loved you, and I loved you long before we began dating. I have been in the Galra cells before, Lance, and I've seen the difference between desperation and devotion. And while the first may have been the driving force to me finally admitting it to you, the second is definitely how I felt.”

“Jesus, Keith,” Lance gasps out. “What happened to Mr.-the-only-words-I-know-are-knives?”

“I'm bad with words,” Keith huffs, and then softens. “But I'm good with you.”

“Yeah,” Lance allows. “You are. Thank you.” He mouths over the bite mark on Keith's neck, just lapping at the skin that still tingles with the pain of bruising under Lance's careful tongue.

“You two done being cute over there?” Hunk calls teasingly, shattering the possibility of being drawn back into the memory.

Keith sighs. “Guess I'm gonna go back to training. You'll be okay here?”

“Yeah. 'M fine.”

Keith gently nudges away from Lance, and retrieves his bayard. He's about to start up a new session with the gladiator when Coran calls for him.

“Keith! We've been staying here on the Balmera for a while now, so we might as well make the best of it!”

Keith scowls, the thought just occurring to him. Between patching things up with Lance and trying to convince Pidge to leave Matt here, they've been lingering for a while. And even though it's not exactly clear that Zarkon's tracking them, they've been targeted too closely to assume they're safe staying in one place. “When are we moving on?”

Coran's fingers splay over his mustache thoughtfully. “I'm not sure. Allura and Shiro are discussing it currently, I presume.” Right, Shiro, who still hasn't let Keith talk to him about what happened with Pidge and Matt. “Now, anyway—I'd like to have Hunk try out this new attack, but it requires a moving target.”

“I'm not gonna get blasted across the room again, am I?”

“Quite the opposite!” Coran says, far too cheerfully. “It's supposed to stick you to your location.”

“...Permanently?”

“Well at least it's the training room,” Lance quips. “You're always in here, anyway. We'll just have to use the sprinkler system so you can shower.”

Hunk barks out a laugh.

“That's not a bad idea,” Coran hums.

“No,” Keith growls. “This better be temporary.”

“It should be,” Hunk says.

Keith takes in his gently hopeful expression, and then focuses on Lance's soft grin, as he watches, and melts. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Where do you want me?”

Coran's delighted expression is only mildly terrifying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Panic attacks/nightmares, mentions of past torture, Sesa Making Up Languages
> 
> EDIT: I messed up posting this last night because it was something like 5AM   
> and then I accidentally deleted the chapter that had comments on it oops so, to Sweetlil_Angel, your brain barf is honestly one of the nicest, most motivating things to read and words cannot express how grateful I am that you enjoy this all so much and I've said that like five times now and repetition doesn't make it any less true (Also, yes, Pidge is being an irrational and salty little shit but it'll work out; right now, they're grieving, in a sense. Your rants made my day though hfbkjdssgd and I will admit that some of the Keith/Lance scenes in this chapter were my favs)


	16. Night Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha hah aha hah

“ _Why are they still fighting?”_

“ _That's—that's because maybe it's them! Maybe... Maybe people aren't always good... Maybe it's just—it's who they are.”_

\- _Wonder Woman_ (2017)

 

For the fifth night in a row, Keith finds himself wandering through the expansive cave system in the Balmera. Passages that were once rough with forced mining, jagged stalactites fending off unwelcome visitors, are now smooth, pristine with lines of crystal running through the walls—Keith can tell only because Lance had pointed them out, and there's a subtle difference between the soundwaves when they bounce off the rock.

The Balmera welcomes them, beckoning with the slight breeze of its breath through the caves, letting the pulse of its heartbeat join in greeting as Shay leads the team (except for Pidge) deeper.

Hunk is ecstatic, as always. He fits in here, with the earth and kindness, and Keith feels out of place. Even Lance is more at home as they descend, and, okay, maybe Keith still feels a little guilty about almost hurting the Balmera far more times than any of the other team members. He feels too volatile here, like the pressure of the earth above him will trigger a reaction.

As if echoing Keith's thoughts, the Balmera lets out a soft groan, a whisper of noise that Keith feels in his bones more than he hears. They've all gotten closer to the creature—this one specifically—though they still are on no level of connection as the Balmerans themselves or Allura. A token of friendship as reward for their efforts.

“Something's wrong,” Shiro says thoughtfully, cautiously. Keith watches as his shoulder brushes Allura's as they walk, and he wonders if Matt's comatose return and the following argument with Pidge has brought them closer together or set cracks in the fragile glass of Shiro and Allura's relationship.

But Keith's not really one to talk.

Shay's brow pinches into concern as she comes to a stop. “Shiro is right. The Balmera is distressed.”

Placing a hand against the cave wall, Shay closes her eyes, and Keith feels the hum of the rock around him intensify. Lance leans into him, fingertips quivering as they curl around Keith's. His hand is cold, a wary curve to his frown. Keith's back feels numb, a sympathetic pain.

 _Something's coming, I think_. _I can feel them_ , Lance tells him.

_Bad something?_

_Druid_.

“Perhaps we should return to the surface,” Allura suggests, but the tone of her voice implies it's a command. Her shoulders are tense. “The Balmera says something is approaching, and this doesn't bode well. It would be best if we're prepared.”

Shay pulls her hand away, and nods, once, before turning and starting to lead them out.

The sunlight is warm on Keith's face as the group reaches the surface, slipping out of a crevice in the side of a cliff. As far as the reach of his echolocation goes, he sees nothing. The surface of the Balmera stretches out before them, littered with crags and juts of stone, and in the distance, the castle sits waiting.

But the others must see something, beyond the atmosphere and thus beyond Keith's vision, because Shiro lets out a string of curses in Altean that has Allura agreeing with him and then ordering them back to the Castle of Lions. The strain in her voice has all but Shay easing into a hard run.

“Coran!” Allura hisses into a communicator, because he'd opted to stay back in the castle this trip, determined to make sure the teleduv was working at its best. “Coran! There's something heading this way! Get the defenses ready!”

There's no reply, but it doesn't matter because they're all pounding across the ground anyway, bursting through the castle doors and heading towards the lions.

Except—except Lance.

Keith skids to a stop.

“I—I can't—” Lance whines, needy and desperate. “I—”

“I'll go, Lance,” Allura responds, freezing a little way further than Keith had. She turns and offers him a soft smile. “We'll make it. I'll take care of her until you can again.”

The tense pinch of Lance's shoulder relaxes, but his expression remains a level of horrified, despair dancing in his eyes. “I—It s-should be m-me—”

“And it will be,” Allura assures him, perfectly calm and collected except for the slight pant to her breath from the exertion of running. “You'll pilot Blue again, but for now, recover. She will wait for you.”

“It's okay,” Keith breathes, and the sentiment is echoed equally across their bond. _You don't owe us anything. We'll be okay. I'll be okay_.

Lance takes a deep breath, shaky but strong. “Okay—okay—I'll f-find Coran.”

Allura nods encouragingly. “Coran can man the defenses alone, but he'll probably appreciate the help.”

“What's going on?” a hoarse voice demands. Eyes narrowed behind their glasses, Pidge glances over Lance and Keith with something akin to a sneer on their face, before they turn distastefully towards Allura, waiting for an answer.

“Pidge, get to your lion,” Allura orders, triggering a deep scowl that pulls at Pidge's expression. “We're under attack.”

“Pidge—I'm sorry—” Lance manages.

“I don't want to hear it,” Pidge growls, stalking past Keith. “And try to keep your bond to yourself,” they snarl as they brush by. “I don't want to have to deal with you any more than I have to while we form Voltron.”

“With that attitude, it's definitely more of an 'if,'” Keith fires back.

“ _Keith_ ,” Allura scolds, and then motions for him to follow.

Keith bites back the growl rising from his chest.

 _Stay safe_ , Lance tells him as he turns to follow Pidge and Allura to the hangars.

 _You too_.

Red greets Keith with a purr of satisfaction, a simple thought of _I knew you were coming_. The thrum of some sort of mechanical high already pulses through her, feeding Keith adrenaline until he's dizzy with the feeling as he settles hard into the pilot seat. It's a moment of impatient twitching for both of them, Keith's ears flicking aimlessly, Red's tail brushing the floor of the hangar—and then the blast doors are open and they're speeding out, paws pounding against the ground, and then nothing as Red takes off. She joins her family in the sky.

Green edges as far away as possible.

Hurt flashes through Red, swarming against Keith, too, and Green replies with faint apology, but then Pidge's anger, boiling and poisonous, is overpowering her lion's quiet connection with the other paladins.

Okay. So this might be a difficult battle.

The container, though smaller than most, hits hard against the Balmera's surface, wrenching a groan from the living planet.

“That's a robeast, isn't it?” Hunk rambles. “Please tell me that's not a robeast.”

Hissing open, the metal coffin opens.

“No,” Keith growls, starting forward out of instinctual reaction. “That's _Haggar_.”

 _Definitely_ , a difficult battle.

A manic grin, the crackle of electricity.

“What the fuck did they do to her?” Pidge whispers, dropping all pretenses of anger in the face of this realization.

And maybe, maybe, Keith might have managed a reply, except that Haggar's tiny form, a metal hummingbird of existence compared to the lions, darts forward.

Yet Keith can still see her hovering near the coffin.

There's a projection of her form, dancing across their field of vision, phasing out, multiplying, and then dragging back to the real Haggar.

“Is she... broken?” Hunk asks, voicing the perplexed ring of their thoughts across their lions' bonds.

“What the hell,” breathes Shiro.

“Stay alert,” Allura warns, a leader even without the black lion. “And stay close.”

Haggar's entire body flickers, once, twice, and then she looks straight at them.

Through them?

The world goes dark.

Fear flashes through Keith, through all of them. His tongue sits heavy in his mouth, choking out the cry of reaction, trapping the anger inside his throat. He can't breathe—can't—

It's a velvet voice, soothing and melodic. It's nothing like the terrible stab of knives when Haggar's dark magic grates against Keith's mind. It eases him, and yet Keith's skin still crawls. “ _I'm sorry, my love_.”

“Paladins?” Coran's voice echoes over the comms. “Paladins, our visuals are out—”

 _Can't move._ Keith fights the voice winding through his head to try and get a message to Lance. _Can't speak. Can't see._

 _No one?_ Lance's panic slices through Keith, but it's a sliver of emotion compared to the paralysis that freezes his muscles. _I can_.

 _How—_ Keith's train of thought is interrupted.

 _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_.

Haggar's mind echoes across the team's bond, seeping in from the darkness around them, worming itself into their thoughts and latching like parasites. Keith feels like his heart is cracking. It's not painful, not in the way druid's claws leave scars, but it _hurts_. It hurts in the same way as Lance turning away from him, walking towards the pod. It hurts in the same way as the solemn betrayal on Elatha's face as Arras abandoned him, fear so ingrained in her being that she'd truly become slave to the Galra. It hurts in the same way as Coran's quiet moments of contemplation, when one of the paladins catches him gazing forlornly into the stars, remembering a family of his own that now lays in tatters.

It's heartbreak.

“My morning star,” whispers Haggar, and Keith feels bile rise in his throat. Fuck—Red would kill him if he threw up in her, but—he chokes, body unresponsive to the nausea swirling in his gut. “You were always my morning star. I can no longer take care of you, my love. But I will save you—I will...”

Electricity crackles, closer now.

 _There's a storm_ , Lance informs him. _She's making a storm._

“He'll... take care of you now. He always has... He'll... I'll save you.” Haggar voice permeates the air, thickens it with the sweetness of its tone until Keith can't breathe, lungs straining.

His head swims. His mouth tastes like honey. He smells— _flowers_ , perhaps.

“Haggar!” Coran's voice booms over the castle communications, broadcasting. “Haggar, Zinnia is dead! Don't—don't do this.”

Because even after all this time, after everything Haggar has done, Coran still clings to hope. Keith hears it in the crack between words, where his breath stutters for a moment too long. Because Coran thinks she can be redeemed.

Because he loves her. He loved them all.

Hell—if any of the current paladins turned, Keith would feel the same way. How could he possibly just _give up_ on the people he would trust the rest of his life with? However many years he has left—they belong to the team, to his family.

Coran made that promise, once, and even if it was broken, Keith knows he still tries to hold the loose threads of fate tying them together.

But Haggar lets out a wail. “No—no! She lives... She... Beautiful... my morning star. He saved her—saved her from you, when you left her to _die_.”

“Zarkon has destroyed worlds!” Coran chokes out. “Please, Haggar, you're better than this—or you were at some point in your life. Zinnia got sick. There was nothing we could do!”

 _Blue's hurting,_ Lance reports, and Keith feels the whimper try to rise from his own throat. _Green looks like she's starting to shut down._

 _Can't—do anything_.

“You knew how to save her!” Haggar's voice turns bitter, resentful. “Altea's quintessence was purest... It could have healed her...”

“It would have killed her sooner!”

“No!” Haggar wails. “If you hadn't destroyed the planet, she would be _alive_! It's because of you! You and Alfor! Selfish! Selfish!”

“Haggar, _please_.”

But Keith doesn't register the words very well because instead of the paralyzing fear from Haggar's presence, he just feels dejected, angry betrayal. He gasps for breath, flinching as emotions buffet against him, but at least he can move again. “V-Voltron—” he gasps out, hopefully loud enough for the comms to pick up. “We gotta—we're stronger together.”

Red growls with Keith's intent. She reaches for the others, and Keith tugs at Black's consciousness, dragging at the slim threads that tie them all together, and then he's nudging Shiro's mind along with the idea. For a heartbeat of a moment, he's worried about Pidge, that their anger will make them too unstable, but then Green is moving alongside Red, nipping playfully at her paws once before they come together.

Everyone's breathing hard.

“Are we all good?” Shiro pants.

“Are we—Coran!” Allura hisses. Keith hears the force of her teeth clicking together, a sound like the snapping of wolves' jaws. “ _You destroyed Altea?_ ”

“ _Later_ ,” Keith growls, unashamed of calling out his commanding officer because even he can tell Allura is too angry, too easily sidetracked right now. “We'll fucking deal with it _later_.”

“I still c-can't see,” Hunk gasps out. “Not even with—not even with Yellow. It's still pitch black, not like Keith's blindness.”

“Lance can,” Keith informs them hastily. “Coran, let Lance speak. He can guide us.”

But Coran instead pleads with Haggar to stop, and this only riles her up more. With an angry growl that echoes through Voltron, she triggers something. A blast rocks them through the air, static crackling over the comms and in the cockpits.

Keith grinds his teeth against the pain as his head hits hard against the back of the pilot seat.

Lance's panic stutters through him, at war with the anger simmering from Allura and tempered neutrality of Pidge.

 _Fire the defenses_ , Keith pleads with Lance.

 _Coran's controlling them_.

_Coran isn't listening to reason as much as Haggar isn't. Would you have given up on one of us even if it was futile?_

Another blast. The world shakes around Keith.

_No, but..._

_Coran is keeping his promise, but we've seen what Haggar's done. She's gone. Not the friend he once knew_.

Keith feels Lance's torn emotions spill over their bond, but as Voltron goes blindly singing through the air only to slam hard against the ground, wrenching battered cries from the team, Lance's resolve snaps into place.

Keith hears the end of a sentence, Lance's voice cracking: “—m sorry.”

And the zip of laser fire blazes through the air, a shining spark across the darkness that even Haggar can't put out.

A broken cry, and the darkness flickers.

“You couldn't,” Haggar grunts. “You couldn't bear that she chose Zarkon. _I_ moved on. _I_ let him have her, because I put her above myself, because I actually loved her, but _you_. You and _Alfor_.” Haggar spits the names like venom. “He couldn't bear to watch her love someone else—couldn't bear to watch her fall in love with his sister and then his best friend. Wanted her all to himself.”

Over the sound of more shots being fired from the castle, Shiro asks: “Can we move? Everyone with us? That last landing was rough.”

“Understatement,” grumbles Pidge.

“So Pidge is fine,” Shiro deadpans. “Hunk? Keith? Allura?”

“Terrified but alive,” Hunk reports.

“Fine,” Keith grits out simply.

“Princess?” Shiro prods, worry clouding his tone.

“I can't believe—” Allura finally bites out. “Coran _lied_ to me.”

“Allura, please,” Shiro pleads, voice broken. Because he depends on her so much, Keith realizes, depends on her to stand up beside him, and to see Allura so shattered is breaking him too. “Keith is right: fight now and ask questions later.”

Allura lets out something akin to a growl, and Blue rumbles with her, faintly.

The sky lights up as lightning streaks across it. Keith gets a flash of vision of Haggar, arms raised, the one Pidge must have cut off, now replaced with Galra tech, glowing unnaturally purple. A streak of electricity, a clap of thunder, the crash of impact.

“She's a-attacking the castle,” Lance warns over the comms. He sounds like he's strung too tightly over the task at hand, voice pitched up with strain and edging on panic. “I don't know how l-long the shields will h-hold.”

“How's Coran?” Shiro asks.

“I t-think he's in shock?” Lance squeaks.

“Lance won't be able to defend very well, not if he can't actually connect to the castle,” Keith hears Pidge say. His mind is elsewhere, feeding strength to his mate, an attempt to quell some of the fear lingering between them.

“Hang in there, Buddy,” Hunk whispers, while Shiro's mind guides Red, guides Keith. He draws back from Lance, enough in the present moment to slip his bayard into the console.

“Pidge, stay ready,” Shiro orders as Keith moves with the manifestation of Voltron's sword.

“I mean, sure, O Great Leader, but I can't see shit.”

“Save the sarcasm for when we're not under attack,” growls Shiro, nudging the others into moving with him. “Lance, can you be our eyes?”

“Uh—I can... try,” Lance responds softly. “Haggar's getting closer. Storm's in front of you. Looks like a hurricane. Maybe a tornado? I'm—not sure—”

“Deep breath,” Keith interrupts. “You can do this. You're okay.”

The words might have held more of a ring of truth to them if Haggar didn't blast lightning at the castle again, and Lance lets out a yelp, followed by the sound of scrambling limbs as the structure falters. He lets out a whine, panting hard as he comes back on the comms. “ _Please_.”

“Negative one-twenty, negative thirty-four, ninety-six,” Pidge calls out. “Hunk, keep us steady, I have a prediction pattern on her coordinates.”

“On it,” Hunk replies, but there's still a waver in his voice.

Keith feels the fear on the edges of his being, like reaching fingers for his soul. There's the sound of a crash, like metal scraping on metal, but Keith feels nothing from Lance's end, so he dismisses it in favor of falling in line with the team's intent. Even with Allura in Lance's place, even with Pidge furious, they work like a well-oiled machine, both mentally and quite literally: Pidge feeds the plan to Shiro, carried by their lions' bonds, and from there it branches.

Morbid satisfaction settles over Keith as the sound of Red's laser fire is drowned by Haggar's cry.

Light strikes, illuminating the cyclone of the storm stuttering in the air as it threatens to dissipate before swirling back to life, revitalizing the taste of static and ozone on Keith's tongue.

His body seizes, renewed with fear, and Keith finds himself gasping for breath. He grits his teeth against the onslaught of unwanted emotion, finds he can still move his mouth, meaning they shouldn't be silenced like last time.

But just as he's about to call out to the others, the sound of a struggle makes his blood run cold with terror induced entirely because of him.

Well, him, and Lance.

“Shit—” Lance's voice squeaks over the comms. “Coran! No—fuck—how did—”

He cuts out, either physically silenced or because the communications system tuned out.

“Lance!” Keith chokes out, frantic. “Lance, what—”

 _Lotor_.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Keith grits. The earlier crash: not an attack, but a ship.

 _He knocked Coran out_ , Lance tells him, and the whimper that tears from Keith isn't his.

“If you hurt him again, I swear to—fuck—I will _destroy_ you,” Keith snarls, vicious enough to draw a squawk of surprise from Hunk.

“Keith, what the hell?” Pidge bites out.

“Lotor's in the castle and has Lance. He dares to lay a finger on _my_ mate,” Keith spits the last part, venomous in the threat intended towards Lotor.

“Shut up,” Lotor says viciously into the comms, startling a single curse out of Shiro and many from Pidge. All pretenses of showing off from the last time he spoke to Keith are gone. His tone just fails to hide bitter undercurrents. “I'm not here for him.”

 _I'm not hurt_.

Part of Keith floods with relief, but the fear is now replaced with anger. He strains against the bond of Voltron, trying to pull the others into action. _They need to get down there_. They need to save Lance. They need to kill this bastard. They need to kill Haggar.

But Lotor's voice is broken when he broadcasts into the air, using the Castle's intercoms to speak to the metal monster outside. “ _Mother._ ”

Lightning strikes again, this time directed, and Keith can see it flare through the sky as it shoots towards Voltron, hitting close to where Red connects to the rest of the body. Shiro grunts against the pain, reverberated over their bond, and struggles to keep them together as electricity dances over the metal. It never reaches within the lions, but Keith can feel their pain. Damage done to their bonded is still damage done to paladins.

But with Allura and Pidge, and now Keith fighting the team, there's not much Shiro can do. They split, tumbling away into single creatures, and it's only a heartbeat before Keith is pushing Red to her limits to reach the Castle.

“Stop,” Lotor orders, and the word is filled with magic, a sort of compelling intent that Keith's body wants to obey. He's not sure if it's directed at him or Haggar. “Mother, please,” Lotor continues, seemingly ignoring Keith's descent towards him. “Father has already driven you away from me once. I will not let him destroy you as he has himself.”

Maybe it's the way Lotor speaks so freely, so transparently that gives Keith pause. Anger still roils through him, but Lance is calm, he realizes, and Red is too, feeding entirely off of Keith when she moves. She has no desire to hurt Lotor.

But in his hesitation, Keith also realizes his mistake.

Red is thrown away, flank blasted by some mix of druid magic and natural disaster as Haggar attacks. Keith tastes blood as he bites his tongue, gritting down against the pain of being throw around the cockpit. The Balmeran rock that Red hit holds strong, but Red's body takes the consequences of it.

“Keith!” Lance's voice is distant, either because the ringing in Keith's ears is too much or because he's not quite close enough to the comms system to be heard clearly. But his distress is present enough over their bond. “Lotor— _please_. She's gone! You can't bring her back from this!”

There's a soft sigh, barely audible. Then: “I know, Kitten. I know. I'm sorry. Here. Call off your guard dog and tell him to attack the real enemy here.”

“Oh,” breathes Lance. “He's leaving,” he says over the comms.

“Stop him,” Keith manages. “He's—”

Lance's hesitation is a heavy weight on their bond, pushing the air from Keith's lungs. “I—can't,” he chokes out. “ _Keith_.”

Suddenly Haggar lets out a piercing screech, and the darkness over the lions' visions flickers away. The storm dissipates, scattering across the sky. The metal skin of Haggar's body falls away.

Lotor's ship zips close to Red, still recovering from crash into the stone. His voice floats from somewhere—either over Red's comms, somehow, or from the broadcast of his pod.

“Burn her,” he orders. “It is an end fitting for a former Red Paladin. And know this, little brother: one day that lion will be mine. I have as much right as you do. But that day isn't today.” Keith can practically hear the saccharine smile on Lotor's face. “But you already knew that, didn't you?”

Keith says silent, unsure if he should give in to the anger pulsing through his veins when everything around him seems disinclined towards the same sentiment. Instead, he pushes at his bond with Red, nudging her up, and fires her elemental canon.

Lotor disappears into the distance.

Haggar's body burns bright as it plummets to the surface of the Balmera.

Keith has almost as many questions as he has vows for revenge against the Galra.

 

 

 

The aftermath is brutal.

Allura rushes to Coran's side to check if he's still breathing where he lay propped against the control panel, and then a look of horror passes over her expression under the Blue Paladin helmet, and she recoils, stumbling away from Coran and scrambling until she hits the far wall, breathing hard.

Lance slips quietly over to her side, carefully removes her helmet, even though his own fingers tremble while touching it, and pulls her close. Allura falls against Lance's shoulder, clings to him, and lets the tears fall. Lance's arms wrap loosely around her, automatic. The whole scene is contemplative and reminiscent of the Lance who coaxed Keith into accepting that this team is his family, reminds Keith of the boy he once knew out here in the void, scared and unsure but determined and _kind_. Kind in a universe that is only ever the opposite.

It reminds Keith of the Lance he knew before the Galra tried to break him.

Hunk and Shiro work together to take Coran away, presumably to put him in one of the pods. Pidge goes to follow, and then freezes, something terrible shuddering through their being before they mumble out an excuse about getting some food, and then disappear into the bowels of the Castle.

Even as the room empties of the others, Lance refuses to look at Keith. He can feel the shame over their bond, the way it eats at Lance that he could do nothing against their enemy because to Lance, Lotor is a friend. Someone dear, someone kind.

Kind, when the universe had seemingly turned against him. When Keith had hurt him.

The world around him is still, but Keith is shaking.

“I can't—” Allura starts. “Our kingdom, our _home_. Everything we had.”

“I—I'm sure there's a reason,” Lance says softly, resting his cheek against the crown of Allura's hair.

Allura takes in a deep breath, holding it to fend off the sobs soaking into Lance's shirt. On the exhale, she wearily replies. “I know... And that's why it hurts. Because I probably would have done the same.”

Keith feels cold. He lifts his hand, just to watch it tremble in the attempt of his muscles holding him up. Something about this, all of this, has really gotten to him, and he's not sure what it is or if it's even his emotions leaving him so numb. He sinks, slowly, until he's resting on his knees, and pulls off his helmet. The sound of it hitting the floor echoes in his ears, and the clatter draws Lance's attention, looking on with wide eyes. He stares as Keith collapses in on himself, lets his gaze wander as Keith's forearms hit the ground, armor digging into his flesh, as he leans his head down and braces himself against the world.

The position echoes a memory: curled over, broken and beaten, wrists bound while he waits for the next blow on his bare back, for the next to-be scar, for the blood to stain his skin and mind.

Lance whimpers, apparently sensing Keith's distress. Keith faintly hears Allura sniffle, and then choke out a soft: “Go. He is your mate. Even before, you knew this. You fought for him. It's what mates do.”

Keith's ears flick forward, towards hasty footsteps, and then he's being nudged up until Lance can crowd into his space and get his arms around him, and Keith returns the gesture, slotting their bodies together as close as possible even though their knees bump.

Keith clutches at him, claws digging pinpricks into Lance's clothes, and Lance stiffens where they press, too similar to knives, into his back. But Keith feels the echo of panic and pain in his own body, and recoils before Lance even has the chance to pull away. Keith opens his mouth to apologize, but the words don't come, the sentiment instead escaping in a choked noise.

So instead Keith tugs at Lance's shoulders, pulls him close until he can burrow his face against the crook of Lance's neck, and let himself believe that with the beat of Lance's heart against his cheek and the scent of his existence in the air that maybe, maybe, they're actually okay. He breathes deep and holds, because that's all he really can do. It what he's been doing since the start, since they failed that mission—how long ago now?

Since he's had Lance in his arms, and even before then, Keith has just been holding on, sometimes tight, with his entire body, and sometimes loosely, by his fingertips.

Even now, he's not sure which one it is. They have Lance back, they survived another day, and yet Keith still feels like the world is slipping through the gaps between his fingers...

But then Lance reaches up, fills the space with his own hand as he draws Keith's arm from around him to between their bodies, and threads their fingers together in such a tender gesture that Keith feels it tear at the dam inside him.

“Lance,” Keith gasps out.

And in the same moment, Lance blurts: “I want to be a paladin again. I'm not a leader, not like Allura. I'm not a strategist or an informant. I'm a soldier. You taught me to fight. I can't sit on the sidelines and watch you go into battle, not unless I'm with you.”

“Y-you,” Keith stutters out, and ends up pressing a kiss to Lance's neck while he tries to form words. His tongue feels heavy. “Lance, you n-never stopped being a paladin.”

Lance turns to press his cheek against Keith's. “Thank you,” he breathes, but Keith can still feel the tremor in his hand where their fingers are intertwined.

Allura shifts across the room, and the sound of her movement draws Keith's attention. She picks up her—Lance's—helmet, and pads over, dropping it alongside Keith's as she settles a hand in Lance's hair, motions soothing when she cards her fingers through it. Lance starts, for a moment, and then relaxes, pliant in Keith's arms and wary but ultimately accepting of Allura's touches. She dodges Keith's ears with her free hand, something Keith is grateful for, and instead simply rests a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring weight over his armor.

“I never meant to take your position from you, Lance,” Allura says.

“I know,” Lance replies, still speaking into Keith's shoulder, and subsequently, Allura's hand before finally glancing up at her. “I never thought you intended to... I just—with you here, how necessary am I? I know it's selfish to want to go back in, but I don't know how to do anything else.”

“It's not selfish,” Allura assures.

“We need you,” Keith says. “It's not the same, not with you gone. We need you.”

Lance turns again, pressing his nose into Keith's cheek in an attempt to hide the soft smile that blooms across his lips. “That—that's good to hear. I'm glad. I—” Lance cuts himself off, and pulls away, enough that Keith is forced into sitting up or else toppling over completely to keep leaning on Lance. “Allura, is what Haggar said possible? About Zinnia?”

Allura's brow furrows. “I—did Keith catch you up on everything?”

“No,” Keith says, feeling a bit more like himself, and he raises an eyebrow at Lance. “How do you know about that?”

“Your thoughts leak more than you think,” Lance tells him offhandedly, before focusing back on Allura. Keith pulls an offended expression, though he goes ignored. “Does Zinnia being alive change anything?”

Allura worries her lip. “Coran would know more... We'll—we'll have to wait, and if I'm being honest, I'm not sure how soon I want to face him, but I think it's possible. We survived in the healing pods for ten thousand years, so I suppose the Galra may have similar tech. If Coran and my father destroyed Al-Altea—” Allura's voice cracks but she barrels on, regardless. “—for a reason, then that may explain why Zarkon is after the lions, beyond just to solidify his rule over the universe. They are the last source of Altean quintessence. But—I think it changes nothing about how we face him.”

No— _no_. Keith recoils away from Lance as the information settles. Lance peers at him, unsure but concerned regardless. “It gives him _motive_ ,” Keith whispers, feeling the horror of that implication ingrain deep in his bones.

If this, all of this destruction, was justified to Zarkon, then it made him that much harder to take down. It made him less of a monster, more—human. And the fact terrifies Keith.

Because he's not sure if he wouldn't go down that same path if something happened to Lance.

Zarkon's had over ten thousand years to fight for his mate. Ten thousand years to simmer in his vengeance and resentment, ten thousand years to try to save her. Ten thousand years of a mating bond. Ten thousand years of destruction for the sake of that which Zarkon loves.

Who's to say Keith is any different? Perhaps it's something Galran, written into their DNA. Perhaps all he's really good for is war and death. Hell, what good did mating do for Lance? He said himself all it brought was pain, and maybe, maybe he's _right_.

Keith sucks in a breath, flinching away from Lance's reaching hand, twisting away until they're no longer touching. “No, I—”

Distantly, he's aware of Lance speaking, of Allura watching with concern and gentleness that Keith has never, ever deserved. Allura was right to be upset, from the beginning, he shouldn't have mated Lance, shouldn't have escaped the Galra in first place when all he's made for is perpetuating a hateful rule... A hateful rule bred from poisoned love.

 _Stop it!_ Lance's cry against Keith's mind causes him to wince, but he freezes, allowing Lance's fingertips to brush over his knee. _You aren't him. Stop thinking you are_.

“What makes me any different?” Keith hisses, though there's no bite to his words.

“You are good,” Lance breathes, drawing closer. “You aren't him. You are _good_.”

There's a moment where Keith acutely misses his sight. Because even with his echolocation, he misses the way his gaze could convey things. He misses the way that seeing the blue of Lance's eyes was once enough to quell all fear, and the _meaning_ behind his expression wasn't lost to the milky nothingness of blindness.

“You don't understand,” he says instead, voice quiet. Timid. Timid, that's what he feels. He feels tiny in comparison to the world. Wasn't it enough that he's Zarkon's son? And now, he's just following in his father's footsteps, willing to tear the universe apart for his mate. How many rifts are there in Voltron alone because of Keith's decision? A decision that he didn't even include Lance in, because he never thought of the consequences, and look where it got them. “I wouldn't be, if it weren't for you. You're not Galra. You don't feel it, the emptiness when you're not with me. I can't—I can't imagine—to be so _alone_.”

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance stresses. “You are not Zarkon. You are hotheaded and rash, but you're not twisted. It's one thing to care so much for a mate that you would do anything for them, and it's another thing entirely to break all sense of morality to actually do those things without second thought. There are always other options, and Zarkon chose anger and destruction over teamwork and loyalty.”

“Zarkon was good once, too,” Keith breathes.

“And so was every tyrant, if you ask the right person,” Lance fires back. “It doesn't forgive their actions. We all have different sides to a story. Zarkon may have a noble reason, but that doesn't forgive the fact he's hurt so many people. That—he hurt _you_.” His voice cracks, and then turns venomous. “God forbid, but that's all I care about Keith. I'm supposed to be a paladin. I'm supposed to care for the universe, but hell, the only person that matters that much in my life is you. Even if he was good, he hurt you, and that alone is enough to make me want to kill him. You act as if our mating bond means only you feel things. You act as if I wouldn't do the same thing if I lost you. It's not because I'm Galra. It's not because of a mating bond. It's because I care. We're all a little bit like Zarkon, but we _are not him_.”

Lance draws his hand across Keith's leg, reaching for his hand. He shuffles closer, pulling Keith's hand forward until he can press a kiss to the knuckles. “Please, Keith. You're not alone. Don't act like this is all on you.”

“If biology is the reason you feel this way, then perhaps I have a confession to make,” Allura says suddenly, and Lance starts, presumably having forgotten she was there. “I cannot change my appearance so freely as you, since my knowledge of the Galra has always been limited...”

“What,” Lance deadpans.

Keith takes in a slow breath, and deflates. Lance words weigh him down, keep him tethered to his sanity, and now Allura. He dares to believe Lance might be right, that maybe he isn't worthless. “That explains... A lot, actually. You never... You never freaked out about me being Galra the way I expected you to.”

Allura sends him a half-bitter smile. “Aside from the fact that I simply _care_? That your appearance means nothing to who you are as a paladin?”

“Wait, wait,” Lance says, twisting to face Allura. “You're a half-breed? Why the fuck did you freak out about us mating?”

Allura looks away, refusing to meet either of their gazes. “I was worried you two had rushed into something you weren't prepared for... I may not know extensively about Galra traditions, but I do know they mate for life. Knowing Keith, I was concerned he would regret being so rash, but I see I was wrong. You two are good for each other.”

“Well, what did you think w—”

“Thanks, Allura,” Keith interrupts. “...Does Shiro know?”

Allura bites her lip. “No. I don't know what to tell him, either. I'm not sure if now is the best time, with Matt here. I would be very grateful if you could keep this a secret.”

Lance looks displeased at the notion, but he sighs. “That's probably better for now, I guess,” he allows.

Keith feels the beginning of a headache worm its way behind his eyes. “Of course, Allura. I think... I think I'm going to go... I'm—I don't—ugh.” He slips his hand out of Lance's and heads for the door. He doesn't intend to, but it still feels like he's running away.

“I'll go with him,” he hears Lance say as he slips out of the room.

“Take care of him,” Allura's voice follows Lance's footsteps. “Take care of each other.”

 

 

 

Hunk is sulking. Keith notices it in the way his movements lag as he spars with Shiro and his gaze stays downcast. He wants more time on the Balmera. He wants more time with Shay. Perhaps jealousy creeps along his skin when he sees Keith and Lance together, envious of the fact they have the chance to be together so often. But then again, this is Hunk, Keith reminds himself. Hunk, who is the softest, kindest, most loyal human being that Keith knows, who would fight jealousy with fond memory, reminders that _this_ is what they're fighting for.

Shiro fights for the sake of preserving goodness, perhaps.

But the other paladins? They're weak.

Hunk fights for Shay, for peoples who have been oppressed. Noble, but selfish at the same time. Hunk fights for his friends.

Pidge, for their family. For Matt, whose face remained still and peaceful as they left him behind on the Balmera. There was no need to convince Pidge after the attack. The decision was instant and silent, as they let Shiro and Hunk carry Matt's pod from the Castle.

Lance fights for Earth, for the ocean and a home he left behind. For family and friends and _humanity_.

Keith fought for survival. Now he fights for Lance.

Because that's what happens when Galra mate: their vision narrows, pinpoints from seeing the expanse of galaxies to a single point.

“Keith,” Lance warns, keeping Keith from spacing.

Instinctively, or perhaps because Lance had unconsciously fed him an escape route, Keith dodges, rolling to avoid the jab of Allura's staff, except that without hesitation, it comes sweeping after him, and Keith is scrambling to leap away from the reach of her weapon.

Too slow.

The air whooshes out of Keith's lungs as he goes down hard from the blow to his back. A claw snags in a crook on his armor, and the subsequent fall rips it away, tearing painfully enough that Keith yelps.

Across the room from where he's sitting against the wall, Lance winces.

“Are you alright?” Allura asks, offering a hand as she leans on her staff.

Keith manages to lift himself from the floor, wheezing still, and claps a hand into Allura's even as pain sparks up his arm at the motion.

Between Allura's flinch and the stray drops of some liquid that fall from their clasped hands, Keith realizes his mistake.

He hears Lance suck in a breath, and the scent of his own blood hits him.

Before Keith can properly recoil from the situation, Lance is next to him, drawing his hand gingerly out of Allura's and lifting Keith from the ground.

“You're either going in a pod or stopping now,” Lance decides, uncaring of the blood sticking to his own hands as he carefully rolls Keith's torn claw between the pads of his fingers.

“Ow,” Keith deadpans.

“There's a medkit where I was sitting. Go clean yourself up. It's my turn.”

Keith quirks an eyebrow at Lance. “You sure that's a good idea?”

Lance bites his lip, even as he starts gently pushing at Keith's shoulders to nudge him in the direction of the medkit. “We have to try sometime. Allura, you don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Lance,” Allura assures, helping to prod Keith away by poking him in the butt with the end of her staff. “Shoo,” she adds helpfully, probably a word and habit she picked up from Pidge. “Don't forget to use disinfectant.”

Keith scowls and sticks his tongue out at Allura over his shoulder. “I'm not a child.”

“You are in comparison to me,” Allura quips back. “Ten thousand years, remember?”

But Keith notices the way her gaze falters.

So she still hasn't spoken to Coran.

He wonders if Pidge has. If Pidge, with their incessant curiosity and currently aimless existence, has wandered towards Coran, if for no other reason than to fill the silence with something other than thoughts of Matt.

He wonders, too, if Shiro got a chance to say goodbye.

He wonders if Allura knows.

He wonders if Allura told Shiro, yet.

Definitely not, Keith concludes, judging by the way Shiro's demeanor remains passive, as he spars with Hunk across the room, trading measured blows in the form of Altean magic or carefully practiced martial arts.

A hiss pulls from Keith's chest as he drips disinfectant on his torn claw. For a moment after, he gets grotesquely distracted by the way he can see the flesh underneath, raw and unprotected as he peels his claw back, bearing the pain in favor of quelling his morbid fascination. Well, it's not like he'd intentionally do this, and he'd never get to see what it's like, otherwise, so—

“Stop fucking with it!” Lance snaps, glaring at him with a half-exasperated frown and looking vaguely disgusted.

“But it's—” Keith flails for a word for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Interesting!” he finally decides on.

“It's gross!” Lance calls back. “If you're going to be weird, do it when I can't see it in my head too.”

“Watch your back,” Keith huffs at him in response, trying to wrap the wound and ultimately giving up in favor of being exceedingly careful with that hand.

Lance scowls, and then sticks his tongue out at Keith, and pointedly does not turn around to where Allura's staff is dipping forward. With a few successive taps on Lance's legs, weak spots and pressure points, he's going down, tumbling in a heap to the training room floor.

Keith gives him a shrug and a cocky grin. “What can I say, I warned you.”

Lance makes a disgruntled noise from his pile of limbs on the floor, and then rolls over to peer up at Allura, lip jutting out in a familiar pout. “Not fair. Wasn't ready.”

“The Galra don't wait for you to be ready,” Allura teases back, a soft smile turning the age-old quip from a scold to a flirt. She taps Lance's foot with her own. “Come on. Keith was working on some hand-to-hand with you before, right? Let's try working on some blocks.”

“But you have your staff,” Lance protests halfheartedly as he picks himself up off the floor, dusting away nonexistent dirt from his frame.

“Exactly,” Allura says, slipping into a more sturdy stance as Lance mirrors her, fists raised before him and forearms down to protect his upper body from blows. “It's good practice.”

“Do you treat Shiro this unfairly when you spar?” Lance snarks.

“Shiro does exactly what he's told when he's told,” Allura hums nonchalantly, and sends a sweep of her staff towards Lance to accentuate her words.

Lance yelps and ducks away.

“I could just spar with him,” Keith offers from the sidelines. “Keep his mouth shut.”

“There are other ways to do that besides beating me up,” Lance fires back, at the same time Allura turns on Keith.

“Does your hand still hurt?”

Keith feels his ears flick back involuntarily. “Um... A little.”

“Then, no,” Allura says sternly. “You're out until that heals up a bit, unless you want to go in the pod.”

“No,” Keith answers instantly, wincing. No pods. Too many memories. Too many nightmares in their cold embrace.

Lance's face mimics Keith's expression, a scowl twisting on his lips.

 _No pods_ , he echoes. Then, a bit more hesitantly: _I need you_.

 _I'm here_.

“In fact, Keith, why don't you call it a day and go shower?” Allura offers softly. “It would keep Lance from showing off.”

“I'm not—” Allura sends Lance a pointed look. “Okay, maybe I'm showing off a little?”

Allura rolls her eyes. “I realize you use it as a distraction, either from the mood of the team or from your own emotions, but really, Lance. We should focus if you want to practice.”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes out. “Yeah, you're right.”

“You'll be fine?” Keith asks, and Lance sends him a soft breeze of soothing emotion.

“I'm good,” he says, and smiles.

It's small, nothing like the cocky grin he often wears. But it's real and a little timid. It's honest.

It makes Keith's chest feel a little lighter.

Lance turns back to Allura as Keith starts gathering his things, careful of his torn claw.

Behind him, he hears the tap of Allura's staff on Lance's armor, form surprisingly good as he raises his arms to block, protecting his head and neck from any potential blows.

Across the room, Hunk and Shiro are taking a break. Hunk guzzles water from a pouch while Shiro huffs a laugh at him. It's a little subdued—they all are, really—but like Lance's smile, it's also honest. It makes Shiro's shoulder shake as if he doesn't carry the weight of worlds.

Shiro says something that's lost to the hum of Keith's echolocation and the _tap-tap-pause_ of Lance's sparring with Allura, but it makes Hunk splutter and choke out his own rumble of laughter.

Keith finds himself smiling, despite it all, as he makes his way out of the training room.

His limbs feel heavy.

Some instinct or internal trigger from Lance has him turning back to his mate before anything happens, but he sees it in the way Lance's body seizes, locking up a moment before he misses the block and Allura's staff connects with his shoulder. The pain is a dull thud of pressure on his armor, but Keith can feel the oncoming panic attack, can taste the copper on his tongue from Lance's memories. Like Keith, the torture is written like ancient script on his bones, ingrained deep and innate.

But while Keith has claws, Lance now has the power to bend space at his will.

Keith's back stings, cold, a ghost echo of Lance's abilities.

He can't see the magic, but he can see the shock, near-fear in Allura's eyes, and then watches uselessly as she's flung backwards.

“Allura!” Shiro calls instantly.

Allura throws her hand up, presumably some shield of her own magic, and twists in the air to prevent the fall from doing significant damage. Still, she goes down hard, and Keith feels guilt swell their mating bond.

 _Lance_ , his mind sings, a call even more deeply built into his being than any of the druid's conditioning.

“K-Keith.” A quiet murmur, interrupted by a choke on a sob. “Do-don't... come closer.”

Keith freezes. Had he been walking towards Lance? _You're hurting. You're hurt,_ he responds instead.

_I hurt Allura. I hurt all of you. I can't control when it'll set off again._

_I'm not afraid of you_.

 _I am_.

Keith lets out a pained noise. “Please, Lance.”

“Shit!” Shiro curses from somewhere. Keith doesn't care.

But it's the inhuman growl that catches his attention, the way the flurry of movement has Shiro stumbling back and Allura scrambling to pull herself up. It's the sounds of claws on a hard surface, piercing like the shriek of crows, and the scent of blood when she bites her own lip, unaccustomed to the sharp of her canines.

“I'm sorry,” Lance gasps out, and Keith finally fights through the lead in his blood to go to him.

His claw snags for a moment on Lance's armor, and he doesn't care, _doesn't care_ about the pain lacing up his arm because he has Lance in his arms, and maybe that would be some small comfort.

Lance leans on him heavily, shaking. “I'm so s-sorry, Allura.”

“It's not your fault,” Allura gasps out.

“What the fuck,” Shiro deadpans. “What. The. Fuck.”

 

 

 

“This involves all of us.”

“No, Hunk,” snaps Pidge. “It involves _Shiro_.”

“Nothing has to change,” Allura mumbles, a halfhearted protest.

“I think this changes a lot,” Shiro responds, bitter.

Lance glances as Keith, a weary expression aging the youth of his gaze. His fingers still tremble, but he's trying. He's trying to keep himself together. Keith wishes they could leave, so he doesn't have to. “Was this what is was like when we fought?”

Keith shrugs one shoulder at him, and lets a sigh slip past his lips. Training had been cut short, and all inhabitants of the Castle corralled into one room for an obligatory meeting.

Allura sat at the head of the table, with Hunk on one side, acting as a human shield between her and Shiro, while Pidge was arguing the needlessness of the gathering from Allura's other side. Her Galran features had faded back, for the most part, though Keith still catches sight of her canines occasionally, and really, the information they should be concerned about is that Lance's magic is quintessence-based if it was able to trigger Allura's Galra form, and that opens a new can of worms on its own. They need to figure out Lance's druid powers before the next encounter with the Galra.

For Lance's sake, they need to figure it out sooner than that.

Instead, half the team refuses to talk to each other, and the other half are sulking.

Yeah, this is definitely what it was like when Lance and Keith used to fight.

Except there's actual hatred fueling the arguments now.

“I'm grieving,” Pidge is saying, sarcastic, words spit between their teeth. “Leave me out of this. It's not my problem.”

Hunk bristles. “Pidge, you're a part of this team, too.”

“Yeah? Maybe I don't want to be—maybe I never wanted to be.”

“Stop it,” Keith huffs to the table, and there must be something in his voice that makes the others turn. Or maybe it's just that they'd forgotten he was there, and the sudden interaction from someone new is a shock to their systems. “Pidge, sit down and listen. No—fucking, _sit_.”

Pidge glares, but the sharpness of Keith's tone must mean something to them, because they obey, plopping unceremoniously into the chair they'd scooted out of the way previously in order to yell over the table.

“Get it through your thick skull that your brother isn't dead. And you're not the only one who cared for him. Stop acting like it. You've given up hope and we can't afford that. We still have a war to win, and there are millions of people out there—millions of _families—_ that depend on the fact that you still have faith in the team. So get your shit together. Doesn't have to be today, but it has to be soon.”

Pidge bites their bottom lip, and then their gaze hardens and they turn away. But they stay seated and silent, so Keith counts that as a win for now.

“Shiro,” Keith starts, and Shiro turns tiredly to him. “Allura being a half-breed might affect the team, but it really affects you. But you dealt with me being Galra, and Allura has a right to have her own secrets. You need time? Fine. But _get over it_.

“Now, Coran. Spill.”

“I'm sorry?” Coran manages from where he's lurking a few paces away from the table.

“You destroyed Altea,” Allura quietly takes over. “Why?”

Coran lets out a soft pained noise, and closes his eyes. The words fall from his lips when he speaks. “When Zinnia... when we thought she died, we believed she died during childbirth—having... you. Altean and Galra genes don't mix well.”

Allura covers her face with her hands, leaning on the table. Through her fingers, she says: “I don't understand.”

“Alfor and Zinnia had been dancing around each other, and Altean gestation periods are rather long, so we hadn't been sure she was pregnant until well after she'd mated with Zarkon. It would have torn most friends apart, but Alfor and Zarkon were more than that, brothers, almost, and Zarkon had forgiven Alfor, agreed to raise the child as his own, between them. Until Zinnia's health took a downturn and she—we thought she died—during labor. Then he turned against Alfor.”

Coran takes a deep breath. “We didn't know what he was after quintessence for, but we knew Zarkon had declared us an enemy. We couldn't risk him having that sort of power, so we destroyed what we could.”

“You mean the planet,” Hunk deadpans, very helpfully. “You destroyed the planet.”

Coran winces. “Yes.”

“Okay,” says Allura. “That's enough. This meeting is over.”

“No,” Keith snaps. “You don't get to run just because you don't want to deal. You have to sit through everyone's problems like everyone else does. We need a plan for dealing with Lance's magic.”

“Is that really a pressing issue right now, Keith?” Pidge huffs, sounding exasperated. “You're biased towards Lance.”

“Of course I fucking am!” Keith huffs. “Because I'm the only one who feels what Lance does! The rest of you don't understand, except maybe Shiro. You guys choose to have emotions, you guys choose how to feel. You can't do that after being with the Galra. They torture you and condition you, and take away your free will. The rest of you choose to feel scared—” Keith flails a hand in a gesture at himself and Lance. “ _We don't have that luxury_.”

After a moment of heavy silence, Shiro sighs, deflating. “Keith is right. We need to figure out how to help Lance. But not today. We're all... I think we all need a break.”

Keith feels a growl begin in his chest, but Lance rests a hand on his shoulder.

 _It's okay_. _I'm okay_.

 _You aren't_ , Keith tells him. _But you're so much stronger than me, and I don't know what to do_.

“You're here,” Lance breathes, and as the others file out of the room, he wraps his arms, still trembling slightly, around Keith, draws him close, words spoken into the soft of Keith's neck. “That's enough. You're enough.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hHAHHAH AH HA HAH HA HHA
> 
> Chapter tags: canon-typical violence & death, mentions of past torture, minor injury, blood


	17. Night Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'll be completely honest with y'all  
> I read those comments and I don't know how to respond without giving something away LMAO but thank you all very much and it means everything to me to see you guys interested<3 I hope you're enjoying it

“ _We are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.”_

\- _City of Heavenly Fire_ by Cassandra Clare

 

The silence of isolation, except for the howl of creatures or creak of structure.

A ghost whisper of things to come.

Keith wakes with a start.

Panic strikes against his rapid-beating heart, hastens his breathing.

Lance is gone.

The nightmare flits away from memory.

“Lance?” he calls to the nothingness, reaching with tentative fingers across the bed. Cold.

The room is quiet.

Lance must sense his distress from their bond, because within moments, he's reaching out to Keith. _You fell asleep while I was reading. Your headband's by the bed._

Keith feels himself scowl, sends his mock displeasure towards his mate. _Sorry. Your voice is soothing. Where are you_?

Keith feels Lance's hesitation, but ultimately his walls drop. _Training room_.

Keith scoots across the bed, carefully feeling for his headband until his fingers brush metal. _What are you doing_?

 _What do you normally do in a training room_? The message comes with a sense of sudden frustration, making Keith pause in the doorway of his room.

 _Are you okay_?

Lance responds with a jumbled flurry of emotions, largely vexed, but also tired, and underneath everything else, an edge of defeat.

 _I'm coming_ , Keith tells Lance.

 _I know_.

 _You're exhausted_ , Keith observes as he slips into the training room. He can feel it over their bond, but even more so he can see it in the slump of Lance's shoulders, the way his hair sticks to his brow with sweat. _And scared_.

“Fear seems to be the trigger,” says Lance, looking coolly down at his upturned palms. Keith feels his contemplation, his resentment in the way those same hands he once used to fight for his friends has now hurt them. “You should probably go,” he continues. “I'm fine. Trying to get it under control. I don't wanna hurt you.”

“I'm staying,” Keith asserts.

“Then stay over there,” Lance replies. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“I told you I'm not afraid,” Keith says, taking a step forward.

“That's exactly why you need to stay over there.”

Keith freezes.

Lance's gaze flicks up from looking over his hands to pin on Keith. “Because you aren't afraid to get close to me. You care, and when you care, you're reckless with yourself. I don't want you getting hurt because of me.”

Anger simmers low through Keith. He hates this—hates that Galra have made Lance afraid of touching him, hates the Galra for making Lance afraid of himself when there's already so much else they're both afraid of. From the way Lance's gaze narrows, Keith's impatience doesn't go unnoticed, but he stays silent as Keith plops down unceremoniously where he is.

Lance sighs as he turns, dropping his hands to his sides. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“We've been out here for over three years,” Keith says quietly, picking absently at his torn claw and ignoring the tiny sparks of pain. “I'm still not sure if any of us know.”

Lance chokes out something akin to a laugh. He lifts one hand, closes his eyes, brows pinching together in focus. Keith feels the moment Lance begins to block him from his mind, but it doesn't stop Keith from sensing the tense of Lance's muscles, the chill down his spine.

The air in Keith's lungs fills with static, a moment of silence spent waiting for the fallout, only for the fallout to be Lance's frustrated groan which tapers seamlessly into an even more frustrated cry. Lance presses the heels of his hand against his brows, muttering curses as he begins pacing.

Keith watches, sympathy turning his gaze fond. “What are you trying to do?”

Lance sighs again, and lets his hands drop, this time with more force behind the movement. “I don't know.” Suddenly, he turns to Keith, gesturing wildly at him. “You said I was stronger than you, but I'm a fucking mess! I can't get this shit under control, and I don't know who I am anymore, and—no, stop that, don't come here, I can read your thoughts.”

Keith makes a keening noise in the back of his throat, some echo of distress at being told not to do exactly what his muscles ache for: to go to Lance, to comfort, to hold, to protect. Instead, he pulls his knees up to his chest and holds his legs close. It's not Lance, not a replacement by any meaning, but it keeps his body from disobeying him, at least.

“What I meant,” Keith says softly, “Is you're harder to break. You're hurt; they hurt you, but you're not broken. You have nightmares, and memories, but they're not a part of you in the same way they are for me.”

“Are you trying to play victim? Like what I went through was nothing?” Lance snaps.

“You know that's not what I mean,” Keith grumbles back. “You're still fighting. You're still trying. For a while, when I was on Earth, I'd given up. _I'd given up_. And then Matt and Shiro got me into the Garrison and everyone had so much hope and they believed they actually had a _future_ , and then there was _you_ , and—”

“You noticed me?” Lance interrupts.

“Of course I did,” Keith admits, closing his eyes as if that would make him blind to the emotions passing over Lance's expression. “You were the most annoying, optimistic little shit there. You shone the brightest. You had your life all planned out, big dreams and a bigger ego, until some bitter half-breed cheated his way to the top and knocked your world out from under you. But even then you made it your mission to claw your way back up. Even when the world was against you.”

Lance presses his lips together. “You never told me,” he says finally.

“I wasn't planning to, either,” Keith whispers to his knees. “But, what can I say? You're my weakness, Lance. You have been for years. Your faith, your determination, your kindness—everything that I'm not—it makes you strong.”

“Not strong enough,” Lance mutters.

“But you'll get there,” Keith tells him. “You'll pull through.”

Lance lets out a disbelieving snort.

“You act as if I can't see the future,” Keith hums.

“You act as if the future is certain,” Lance fires back.

“You'll adapt,” Keith replies. “You're water. You flow. You encompass, and you move forward.”

“Yeah, well, sure would be nice if I could adapt to this bullshit.”

“Patience yields focus,” Keith says, a mocking lilt to his tone.

“I hate you,” Lance grumbles, but there's no bite to the words. He sighs, all the fight leaving the set of his shoulders, and he gives in to the pull of Keith's proximity, quietly closing the distance between them.

Once Lance is near, Keith opens up, uncurling from his position to welcome Lance into his arms. He settles half into Keith's lap, sitting on the floor but splaying his legs across Keith's while he rests his head against his shoulder. There's a moment where Lance just breathes deep, and they get lost in each other's closeness, in the openness of the others' mind.

 _I don't want to hurt anyone anymore_ , Lance tells him with a sense of dejection.

Keith presses a kiss to Lance's temple. _I know, but we're here for you. You don't have to be afraid of being near us. We're learning too._

“Are you two okay?”

Keith hums a response, almost a purr. “Fine,” he calls back, words half-slurred by emotion. “Why are you up, Shiro?”

Shiro rubs the back of his neck with his human hand awkwardly as he steps into the room. “I, uh... Heard noises in here.”

“You mean you couldn't sleep,” Lance says sharply. “Don't lie. We know you.”

Shiro gives them a shrug in response. “You two should be asleep.”

“So should you,” says Keith.

“Couldn't sleep,” Shiro admits.

“Keith had a nightmare,” Lance explains. “Woke me up. Came here to hide before I did that druid bullshit again.”

“That's why?” Keith asks, running his nose soothingly along Lance's temple, scrunching up his face when the damp hair tickles his skin. “I'm sorry.”

“Not like you can help it,” Lance mumbles. “Not like I can either.”

“We could sleep in the lounge,” Shiro offers, and Keith catches the hopeful note hidden in his words.

It draws a chuckle from him, makes him honest. “Sure,” he says. “Do you think Hunk would be pissed if we woke him up?”

“Hell yeah he would,” Lance says as he pulls himself out of Keith's lap. “But he'll be more upset if he finds out he missed cuddles.”

“I'll go ask,” Shiro says. He turns to leave the room, only to let out the most high-pitched, inhuman yelp that Keith's ever heard from anyone on the team.

He winces at the assault on his ears. “Jesus, Shiro, what the fuck?”

“ _Later,_ ” snaps a voice from behind Shiro's frame. “Listen, Shiro, I—stop glaring at me, it's not my fault you're a zombie when you're tired—anyway I was pissed at Keith but he told me to get over my shit, so this is me getting over my shit—” Pidge's head pokes around Shiro to pin narrow eyes on Keith and Lance. “I'm still mad at you by the way, but whatever. I was working through some of the data we got from the mission a while back because I never actually went through it, but _look what I found_.”

“Holy shit,” Shiro breathes, after a moment of squinting at Pidge's laptop. “That's... a lot of quintessence.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Pidge says. “Zarkon needs quintessence for whatever necromancy bullshit he's working, right? This is the biggest nexus of shipments we've ever seen. If it's not his main base, then I don't know what it is. Maybe a shipping facility, but... You said it: that's a _lot_ of quintessence.”

“Wow,” Shiro breathes, a little awed. “Good job, Pidge.”

“We have to go for it,” Pidge presses. “This info is probably already outdated.”

Shiro's brow furrows. “Those coordinates... That galaxy is pretty far out.”

“We can't,” Keith blurts. “We're not ready.”

Shiro blinks up at him, surprised. “That would be the first time I've heard you back out of a battle, Keith.”

“We need Lance,” Keith says, more assertive. “Lance isn't ready for this. The team isn't ready for this. We've been through too much too recently.”

“We're losing our chance!” Pidge argues.

“They don't know we know anything,” Keith protests. “They have no reason to change their positions. As far as they know, we're in hiding! And that's where we need to stay until Lance recovers.”

“Allura can pilot Blue,” Pidge reasons.

“You know she's not good enough,” Keith fires back. “She doesn't have the experience with us.”

“We need to go. We need to get out there—I need samples—” Pidge clamps their mouth shut.

“ _Pidge_ ,” Keith stresses, ears pinned back. “Whatever you're hiding, it's not worth risking everything.”

“You're only saying that because the person you love the most is in the same room with you!” Pidge stomps around Shiro, pointing an accusatory finger at Lance.

“If we do this mission, then we do it for the sake of saving the universe, not for Matt!” Keith growls back.

“Everything I've ever done is for Matt!” Pidge shouts, fuming.

“That doesn't mean we're going to commit suicide for him!” Keith yells back. “I won't let you!”

“Stop it,” Shiro snaps, halting the brewing argument in its tracks before it comes to blows, which wouldn't be a first. He turns to Lance. “Lance? Thoughts?”

Lance looks between Pidge and Shiro, gaze wild and jaw dropped open as if the words had died on his tongue before they had a chance to come out. Suddenly, he presses his lips together, teeth clicking shut with resolution, and Keith feels the fear tremble through him, the chill start at the base of his spine.

“Lance,” he gasps out as he lunges forward, drawing Lance's trembling hands in his own. “Lance, look at me. Lance, come back. You're safe. You're okay. Don't—” Keith winces as his palms burn.

He sucks in a breath, gives himself away, though really Lance could probably already sense his pain over their bond. Snatching his hands away and clutching them close to his chest, Lance stares at him with wide eyes, scared and traumatized. “No. No, I... Keith, I can't—” He stumbles backwards, and it hurts Keith to watch fear pull Lance away from him more than it does to hold him.

Pidge's shoulders are still set, a hard picture of determination, but their gaze softens. “You're right,” they say, to no one in particular. “We're not ready.”

They turn on their heel and walk from the room, leaving Keith to deal with the broken outcome.

 

 

 

Lance gasps and twitches against Keith's side, tangling his legs in the sheets as the nightmare plagues him.

Even the comforting scent of Lance's pillows aren't enough to pull Keith from the visions Lance projects on him. He can't move, can't breathe. Too much— _too muchtoomuch_. He's not drawn in enough to see Lance's memories—Lance must have tried closing off his mind at least a little bit before going to sleep to spare Keith—but he feels the cold touch of chains, the sear of the whip, the sound of metal-on-metal.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut—useless in everything except an attempt at keeping his mind stable. Except that it does nothing to quell the too-rapid beating of his heart. He can't move, his chest stilled by sleep paralysis or maybe panic, but does it really matter what the cause is when Keith is suffocating in his own fear?

He can't _breathe_.

Next to him, Lance's entire body shudders. Keith wishes he could move, but he's held down by the bite of metal cuffs, materialized ghosts of his past, while Haggar's voice whispers dark iterations of what she's seen in the void. Keith feels tears well in the corners of his eyes. A panicked trembling in his bones he can't quite recognize beyond the simple thoughts: _I'm dying. Let it end._

Lance startles awake, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scrambles away from Keith. There's a crash from somewhere across the room, and Lance flinches away from it like a spooked animal.

The touch of torture fades from Keith's limbs, and he can move again, lurching across the bed to press into the opposite corner, claws scrabbling painfully on the wall out of instinct. Like nails on a chalkboard.

Keith can't see Lance, not without his headband, but he can feel the fear rolling off him, slamming into Keith in odd stutters, stealing what little air he can manage to pull into his burning lungs. He can't, he can't, he can't—something's _wrong_.

Lance.

Terror.

He can't _breathe_.

He can't—

Shiro's fingers, wrapping around his neck, the acrid scent of fear-fueled hatred.

Lance whimpers.

Dark magic, curling around Lance's fingers, a monster's intent in his gaze, darkened by the Druids.

The cold of space. The way Allura's skin tore so easily under his claws.

A mating bond turned sour.

Pain, pain, the dig of surgical tools into his spine.

Into... his spine.

A vague sense of sound: someone yelling. Keith cowers, choking on an airless snarl as he attempts to fight for life against these foreign beings. His back is cold. The taste of blood, copper on his lips, and the betrayal that should have been in the team's eyes when he showed up, delirious and vicious and _Galra_.

Keith flinches away from the sounds of breathing, of voices too-close and aching in their familiarity. He digs his claws into the sheets below him, shaking as they tear, and finally feels the tears streaming down his cheeks when something soft presses tentatively at his cheekbone, wiping at the wet tracks.

“—ith, shh. Breathe.”

Keith freezes, an animal in the headlights for a moment while he tries to smell past his own fear.

Breathe? What—he's dying, how can he—

A shocked gasp pulls through Keith's body, fills him for a moment while it remembers that oxygen is necessary and good and generally not trying to harm him. Everything in him trembles, and then there's something coaxing him away from the wall with the warm touch of gentle fingers and soft fabric.

 _Familiar_.

Keith lashes out with a hand, and pain laces up his arm at the shock of his claws against metal. His body stings with the surprise of it, and then he's being carefully manhandled into a different position, foreign hands firmly gripping his wrists to keep him from attacking again.

Keith struggles for a moment, and then something soft presses against his nose, and he remembers, distantly, to breathe. The world steadies, pinpointing to the scent of Shiro. Friendship. _Family_.

He can't _see_.

He whimpers out as much.

“I know,” Shiro breathes against his temple. “I know, Keith. It's okay.”

He's curled into Shiro's lap, the press of his arms around him a vague comfort, second to the scent of familiarity. As he feels his body slip into a less frantic state, bit by bit, the rest of the room begins to trickle into his senses.

“Lance, Lance, Buddy, just breathe, okay?”

Hunk, that's Hunk, Keith thinks. No, he knows, _knows it_ , feels it soothe his bones because he can feel the way Hunk's friendship soothes Lance. It echoes through his being in the same way that Lance and he can set each other off with panic attacks, now it reverberates their comfort. Lance breathes deep, once or twice, though it's shaky, and then whispers out a _thanks_ , equally shaky.

Lance.

 _Lance_.

Keith whines, squirming to get out of Shiro's hold, trying to reach his mate. Shiro stalls him for a moment of uncertainty, and then lets Keith go. He crawls across the bed, feeling his way and led by the scent of lingering fear and _home_.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from Hunk as his claws brush over his leg a bit harsher than he intended. He chokes out a noise, something like an apology, but it's probably incoherent because he's too busy in his mindless need to help Lance, to care and be cared for.

Lance whimpers again, and Keith feels a tentative brush at his shoulder, hears the whisper of his name, broken. “ _Keith_.”

He's not sure if it's Lance himself or Hunk that nudges Lance's limbs closer, until Lance has his arms wrapped around Keith's shoulders and is press forward to lean against him, letting out soft noises of pain.

It's all in their heads.

Keith burrows his nose against Lance's neck, pushes the fabric of his shirt back with his lips until he can mouth over the mating mark, gentle and kittenish in his licks.

“ _P-please_ ,” Lance gasps out, and as he presses his face to Keith's cheek, he feels the wet of Lance's tears match the tracks left by his.

Keith tilts his head away, just to give himself enough room to sink his teeth into his own arm until he tastes the blood welling in the curve of bitemarks. Lance's head ducks forward, shaking hands coming up to clutch at Keith's arm to steady him. Or maybe to steady both of them. They need it. They need this.

Keith presses closer, shuffling on his knees, then ghosts his mouth over Lance's jaw, a careful question.

Lance tilts his head as much as he can in invitation without disrupting his own drinking. In response, Keith's movements along Lance's neck are tentative, but the bite into his shoulder is carefully firm. The quicker, the less Lance has to feel it. So Keith sinks his teeth in, laps messily at the punctures in an attempt to keep the blood from dripping and soaking into Lance's shirt, and feels a sense of calm sink into his being.

It's Lance. It's his blood, singing in his veins, now thundering through Keith's. It's steadfast and grounding and Keith feels his mind pull away from the crumbling ledge of panic into safer, more familiar mental territory. Lance is safe. He's safe. They're in the Castle, with Hunk and Shiro to protect them, able to protect each other, and the stars outside can't touch them.

Keith is far warier of abusing Lance's strength, so he pulls back, lapping at the marks until he no longer feels blood spread across his tongue, only the lingering memory of the accompanying lift of his spirits. It's a high, without the haze. He can feel Lance's body sync with his, can feel the fear ebb away, the way a content sigh slips past his lips.

Can sense the worry beginning to taint his mind, and Keith whines, needy and concerned in response.

“It w-won't stop,” Lance whispers as he pulls away from Keith's arm. “You're still bleeding.”

“Oh,” Keith hums, feeling detached. “I-I guess I h-hit a vein?”

“I'll get something,” Shiro offers from behind him, and Keith starts—not because he'd forgotten Shiro was there, but because he'd forgotten how close he is, and the voice right behind him is loud to his ears.

The bed shifts, and Keith keeps his arm carefully held out, Lance's fingers brushing carefully over his skin, until he feels something hit on his bent legs and realizes that his blood is dripping into his lap. Lance makes a pained noise from the back of his throat.

“It's okay,” Keith breathes, and tilts his head up slowly, wanting, asking.

Lance obliges, pressing his lips to Keith's in a soft gesture. Keith knows Lance recognizes it as a distraction, but he doesn't pull away as Shiro's return is indicated by the dip of the bed and there's a soft press of cloth on Keith's arm.

“Too tight?” Shiro asks softly as he ties off the bandage.

Lance pulls back to let Keith answer.

“It's good,” he answers, flexing his arm to test the hold.

“Are you guys okay?” Hunk whispers, voice pitched up just enough to give away the worry eating at him.

“I mean...” Lance says, and his hands leave Keith, presumably to add some gesture to explain his lack of words.

“I don't think we're sleeping anymore tonight,” Keith adds.

“Do you want to move to the lounge?” Shiro offers.

“I guess?” Keith responds. “Lance?”

Lance's fingers brush over Keith's leg absently. “It can't hurt. You should change pants. These have blood on them.”

“You too,” Shiro says, and Keith feels the air brush past him as Shiro gestures forward at Lance.

“Oh,” Lance breathes, and swallows hard. “Uh.”

“We'll be outside,” Shiro says, and then the bed shifts again as he and Hunk slip away.

“I'll get you a pair of pants?” Lance offers.

“Thanks,” Keith hums, and shuffles until he can hang his feet over the edge of the bed.

Lance returns a moment later, draping something over Keith's lap, and Keith carefully stands and begins changing, listening to the rustle of fabric as Lance does the same.

And then he nearly trips and falls because Lance's legs are way too long, a startled “Fuck!” exclaiming out of him as he flops back onto the bed.

“What's wrong?” Lance is close in an instant, the call of his mating mark fresh and intimate.

“You're a giraffe,” Keith says, sticking out his legs, annoyed, and nearly kicking Lance in the process.

“You're like two inches shorter than me,” Lance huffs.

“Your legs are longer,” Keith gripes back. “Help.”

Lance lets out a quiet laugh, and his hands start working at the cuffs of the pair of pants to roll them up, fingers deft though the tremble underneath his movements still hasn't completely faded.

“Thank you,” Keith says. “...For everything.”

Keith feels the acknowledgment of Lance's attention on him from their bond, but otherwise Lance doesn't reply. Instead, he says, “Headband?”

Keith presses his lips together, contemplative. “No. It's too much right now, I think.”

“Okay,” Lance breathes, and then trails his fingers up Keith's leg until he can reach his hand, intertwining their fingers together. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Keith responds, and lets Lance lead him out to the lounge.

As Lance dozes, curled into Hunk's side and using his shoulder as a pillow, Keith listens to their breathing, sipping at the tea Shiro made them. It warms him, warms his heart to hear Lance's breathing steady, to feel his heartbeat sound and sure and safe.

But he's distinctly aware of the quiet irony: because he's not wearing his headband, his ears pick up the soft-spoken conversation beyond the edges of the room.

“Thanks for telling us,” Shiro is saying. “I don't know how much we helped them, but I'm glad you woke us up.”

“Just because I'm pissed doesn't mean I don't care.”

“Still. Thanks, Pidge.”

 

 

 

“How's your hand doing?”

“Fine,” Keith replies, biting down on a yawn, and then failing to contain it. Shiro quirks an eyebrow at him. “I'm fine, really,” Keith insists in response to his stare. “Just tired.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“On-off,” Keith says, with an accompanying so-so gesture as he goes to get a drink of water.

Shiro follows, brow cinched in concern.

“I'm _fine_ ,” Keith insists between sips. “But he needs the rest more than I do, and neither of us have much control over the nightmares. It's easier with one of us awake.”

“Does Lance know?”

Keith shrugs. “I'm sure he does. I'm not exactly guarded around him.” Shiro's gaze doesn't leave him. Keith gives him another shrug. “Lance is getting better,” he says, partly to get Shiro's attention away from him.

It works. Shiro's eyes flick to watch Lance across the training room, where he's working with Allura. They've been trying to master his powers, Allura adding in tips where she can about the similarities to Altean magic, but there's only so much she can teach him before it falls to Lance to figure out what he's doing. And the past three days have yielded little.

But Lance _is_ getting better. Mentally, at the very least. He's less shaken by the scrape of Pidge's metal claws on Shiro's monkspade, and he doesn't start when one of Hunk's alchemist attacks blows up (sometimes intentionally, sometimes not). Pidge had joined in training the day after Keith overheard them talking with Shiro, and it hadn't been a great experience finding out that the clang of their knuckles was enough to set Lance off.

But now he doesn't flinch, not as Pidge spars quietly with a droid. Instead, he growls in frustration, throwing his hands up in the air in respond to Allura's sympathetic smile.

“Lance!” Shiro calls. “How about a break? Spar with me?”

“With _what_ ,” Lance snaps, anger misdirected at Shiro. He realizes it, expression going soft as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“You can still shoot, can't you?” Shiro says, teasing.

Lance's gaze stays worried, but the dejected slope to his shoulders picks up. He's missed this, Keith can tell. Fighting is horrid, and they all have their scars, both literally and figuratively, but by now they're soldiers, too. There's a thrill that comes with battle, quickens their pulses and instincts, reminds them that, for now, they're alive and free and _fighting_.

Lance goes for his bayard, where it's been left for the past few days on the sidelines. It's the tight grip on it that gives away how much he's missed the comfort of its weight. Lance returns to his position, Allura slinking back to give him space, and Shiro goes to the far wall, shield ready and Galra hand poised.

But when Lance activates his bayard, it's not the familiar shape of his rifle that emerges.

No, instead: a bow.

It's longer than his torso, curve fitted to the press of his fingers as he stares in shocked silence. The ends seem tipped, a sharp point tapering on each end—blades, Keith thinks, for defense at close range. Besides that, there's very little flourish, except...

“There's no string,” Keith deadpans.

“Oh, there is,” Shiro says breathily, all pretenses of sparring dropped.

“Holy shit.” Even Pidge has stopped sparring with the gladiator to come watch, lurking near Keith's side. “Holy. Shit.”

“Am I... actually doing this?” Lance manages.

“Lance!” Hunk cries, and then he's suddenly barreling into him, sending them both sprawling across the training room floor.

Lance lets out an indignant squawk, and then they're both laughing. For a moment, Lance's bayard is forgotten as they tussle. Hunk bear hugs Lance, trying to trap his arms down, but Lance tugs one of his limbs from underneath Hunk's body to ruffle through his hair, dislodging his hairband and sending them both into another fit of cackling.

Then Lance is squealing, pushing at Hunk's shoulders and trying to scramble away while Hunk blows a raspberry into the skin of his neck, managing to tickle him right above the collar of his armor. It warms Keith's heart.

“S-stop!” Lance gasps out, swatting at Hunk. “I give! I give!”

“I'm so proud of you!” Hunk cries, sitting back but using his legs to pin Lance to the ground still. Payback is brutal as he swipes his hands through Lance's hair, pulling a disgruntled yelp from him.

“Keith!” Lance cries, trying to push Hunk's arms away. “Shiro! Someone! I'm being attacked! Help me!”

Allura snorts, and then pads over to help Hunk up off Lance. She holds out her hand for Lance, and then pulls it back just as he reaches for it, a teasing glint to her gaze.

“Hey!” Lance pouts, panting and disheveled and fucking adorable if Keith has anything to say about it. From the way Lance's eyes flick towards him, apparently his thoughts were leaking across the bond.

Keith sends Lance a small, unapologetic smile as Allura helps him up.

“Lance,” Allura says, keeping hold of his hand. “Look.”

“This is for archery, right?” Lance says, observing the change of his armor. The glove over his fingers is thicker now, and there no longer is an end to the brace on his forearm. It's all one piece, some Altean fabric that remains flexible but still strong, Keith guesses, like the material of Pidge's knuckles.

Allura nods. “Coran would have to confirm... But I believe Blue's first paladin used the recurve bow as her weapon of choice.”

“Zinnia?” Lance asks, curious and a little breathless. “She wasn't a druid, was she?”

“No,” Allura says. “She had actual arrows. But I think this might be what you need. Often, Altean magic—most magic, really—is channeled through something. Our bodies are vessels to some degree, but bad at it. Think electricity: we are poor conductors. But add, say, metal, and suddenly it flows much more easily. Magic is the same. I think you can use this to control your powers.”

“Is there some way to keep it without keeping the armor on?” Lance asks. “It would be a relief not to have to worry about exploding while in pjs.”

Keith is treated to a brief flash of horror. Lance tries to hide it, but it's too strong, and Keith catches the whiff of his fears from their bond: Lance is afraid of hurting Keith during one of the nightmares.

“I'll see what I can do,” Allura says kindly. “It should work, but I might need a day or two to get the Castle working on fabricating a new version of your armor.”

“Thanks, Allura,” Lance says, and takes his hand back, flexing his fingers thoughtfully.

“Wait,” Keith blurts. “I'm... confused. Does the bow work?”

Lance retrieves it from the ground, starting slightly when he picks it up. “My powers,” he says. “You can't see the magic, but there's a string made from druid magic when I pick it up. I'm... gonna guess I have to figure out the arrows on my own.”

“Hurry up,” says Pidge suddenly, shifting their weight from one foot to another. “I wanna spar you.”

Lance frowns slightly, but it curves upward, fond, because at least Pidge doesn't seem to hate him or Keith anymore, and that's progress. “Sure, I'll just consult the instruction manual on dark magic,” Lance retorts, but there's no heat to his tone.

Pidge just snorts.

Lance takes a deep breath, and Keith feels the tug on their bond when his mind goes carefully blank. It's nothing new—another mediation technique from Allura to help control his magic—but this time, Lance lifts the bow, makes the motions as if he's drawing back an arrow. There's a gasp of startled surprise around the room, including Lance himself.

Keith doesn't see the string of magic pulled taut, doesn't see the arrow come to life under Lance's fingertips, but he does hear the _sizzle-crash_ of druid magic as it hits the far wall.

Lance's gaze is wide. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah, how's your aim, Sharpshooter?” Pidge taunts.

“Pidge,” Shiro scolds, scowling. But Keith notes the exact moment the crease in his brow softens because he realizes they actually have a point, no matter how caustic. So Shiro goes to the other end up the room, hoisting up his monkspade and holding the spade end out. “Aim for the blade?” he offers. “And preferably try not to hit me.”

Lance bites his lip. “You sure about this, Shiro?”

Shiro tilts his head, a careful contemplation. “Go for it.”

The wary cloud never leaves Lance's gaze, but he aims the bow again.

 _You got this_ , Keith tells him.

Lance swallows, lets the invisible arrow fly.

Shiro's eyes widen in panic. The room starts into motion, then freezes, and through it all, Lance looks stricken.

The monkspade clatters against the wall where it's thrown from the force of the arrow.

Shiro takes in a shaky breath. “Well,” he says. “I... Well.”

“I could have hurt you,” Lance breathes out, horrified.

“You didn't,” Shiro says.

“Are we not talking about the fact you can change the course of your arrows mid-flight?” Hunk blurts. “Because I feel like that's also a thing we should mention.”

“Yup, that's a thing. Cool. Anyway, Lance, let's go,” Pidge says, curt.

“Pidge, I could hurt you!” Lance cries, startled out of his daze.

“Yeah, so? I don't care, and isn't that kind of the point?” Pidge starts towards where Shiro's still standing across the room.

“We don't know if the shields even work on this!” Lance protests.

“Well, we're going to have to find out one way or another.”

“But not like this!”

“Just get ready!” Pidge snaps.

Lance's lips press into a thin like, and Pidge sets their jaw, staring defiantly back at him. For a moment, they compete, and then Lance looks away, grumbling out a, “Fine.”

Shiro moves out of the way, allowing Pidge to take his place. They drop into a sprinter's starting position, and Lance aims his bow in their direction.

“No cheating,” Pidge says. “No making the arrows go around my shield.”

“Do you think I _want_ to hurt you?” Lance squawks.

“Go!” Pidge says, while Lance is distracted.

The sound of an arrow hitting the wall is the only interruption in the tension of the room. Pidge darts forward, managing to get a good bit closer to Lance for a moment, but then they're forced to raise their shield in defense and the force of Lance's arrow pushes them back a few feet.

Pidge scowls, growling out a curse, and starts forward again while Lance pulls back the next arrow.

For a moment, it's back-and-forth. Pidge's small frame slips forward only to be pushed back by an arrow's momentum, the crackle of electricity sharp to Keith's ears with each hit.

But then Pidge ducks into a roll, utilizing the rest of the space in the room, and comes up closer on Lance's side when an arrow misses its mark. Lance hurries to fire again, but he's flustered with the new weapon and misses in his haste, giving Pidge even more of an advantage.

After that, he knows he's lost, though Lance does manage to push Pidge back once again. But there's no way he can increase the distance between them unless he moves, and in past spars with Lance, that's been considered cheating.

So Lance lowers his bow, accepts his defeat.

But Keith sees the fire in Pidge's gaze. They barrel into Lance with their shield, and he yelps as he goes down. The bow goes skittering across the ground, but not before the scent of Lance's blood hits Keith and the echo of pain sparks across his own cheekbone, a sympathetic hurt where the blade on the tip of the bow caught on Lance's skin.

For a moment, a memory—a dream?—flashes through Keith's mind, and then it's gone.

Because he's too busy charging forward, snarling as he tackles Pidge, who is poised over Lance with their claws ready to tear.

“Back down,” Keith growls, and Pidge makes an angry noise at him, something akin to a yell. Their claws come down at Keith, ready to slice at his shoulder, but Keith catches their hands in his own, his own claws scraping on the metal as he wrestles with Pidge's grip.

For a moment, he's losing, before he manages to use his leverage on top of Pidge to push their hands back, slamming them hard onto the floor.

Breathing hard, Pidge glares at him, and then blinks up at him—past him.

Lance stands over Keith's shoulder, bow raised and ready to fire, but his gaze is terrified, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Pidge hiccups, a quiet sound that has the tears welling in the corners of their eyes.

Keith scrambles off them, but stays close to Lance, ready to fight, ignoring the sharp ache of his torn claw and now new cuts on his hands from Pidge's knuckles.

“I'm so-sorry,” Pidge chokes out.

Lance throws his bayard to the ground, shoves his way around Keith, and has Pidge in his arms in an instant. They clutch at each other, some sort of forgiveness in the strength of their grip on the other's armor, limbs, whatever they can get.

“I'm so s-sorry,” Pidge gasps out again, fully sobbing now, and Lance is crying along with them.

“Me too,” Lance says, voice thick. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” Pidge says. “Missed you.”

Keith feels the adrenaline begin to fade, and lets out a shocked little gasp at how much his torn claw hurts. Shiro comes over, starts inspecting Keith's hands, and then starts leading him away to get them cleaned and bandaged.

“Keith,” Pidge calls, sniffling as they look desperately over Lance's shoulder. Lance's gaze is trained on him, too, equally pleading for Pidge's forgiveness. “I'm sorry, K-Keith.”

Keith's ear flick back, involuntarily. But he has a choice, even if his instincts feel betrayed by the attack on his mate. “It's okay, Pidge. It's okay.”

“Promise?”

A ghost of smile tugs on Keith's lips. “Yeah, promise.”

 

 

 

Pidge's anger is like smoke: it's invisible, only lingering in the scent permeating their clothes in the occasional bitter retort, at least until it's washed away. Which is, exactly, what they're doing now, almost literally.

The warmth of the hot springs takes the edge of tension away, easing off the stress of the war and obligation and grudges. Pidge sighs contentedly as they sink in last, settling next to Allura as they slip under the water. Keith's known Pidge long enough that the twin crescent scars are nothing new, but they still stand out on their chest, the only ones marring their body that weren't from battle. At least, a different sort of battle than Galra attacks.

The disturbed water from Pidge's movement laps at Allura's chin, where she's currently slipping lower and lower into the water, and she splutters. Then the pool devolves into splashes and laughter as Shiro tries to keep Allura from splashing Pidge in retaliation.

Lance buries his face in Keith's neck, curling into his side, to protect himself from the water.

There's a mellowed air to the group, lost in their thoughts as they relax. When Allura had offered somewhere to take a break for a couple days (far less time than they stayed with the Balmera, to play it safe), Keith wasn't sure what he expected. But this—here, with Hunk dipping his feet in the warm water while sitting on the edge of the pool, Shiro and Allura snuggled on the other side of the spring, Pidge sinking into the warmth up to their nose to blow bubbles out of their mouth, and Lance settled into Keith's lap—they need this.

There was a time, perhaps, that this would have been awkward. Where Keith might have been jealous of Lance's gaze wandering towards Allura's bare shoulders or Shiro's build, but beyond the potential uncertainty there is trust. That Lance will always come back to Keith, that he knows that, and that Lance knows how to quell the seeds of doubt left by Lotor by pressing sweet kisses to Keith's lips.

That they've all seen each other naked in far worse conditions, with bodies bloodied and broken. That to see each other healthy and happy and safe is a _privilege_. This is what they're fighting for: this peace, to have it reach beyond these little pockets of serendipity hidden from Galra eyes and spread it throughout the galaxies.

“You're brooding,” Lance says sleepily to Keith's shoulder.

Keith squeezes Lance's thigh, fingers brushing over bare skin. He can't see under the water, but he can feel Lance shift in response, pressing closer. “Am not,” Keith protests weakly.

“You are,” says Hunk, nodding sagely. “I can hear it from here.”

Keith sticks his tongue out at Hunk.

Hunk does it right back.

“Stop,” Lance mumbles, too relaxed to be entirely coherent. “Know 'm great but no need to fight.”

Pidge and Allura both snort.

“Lance, please,” Shiro starts in, scolding, and then teasing. “We all know I'm the one everyone fights over.”

“That you are,” Allura chirps back.

“Yup,” Lance agrees, before yawning. It sets off a chain reaction, with Keith yawning after him, and then Allura, followed by the others all at once.

“I hate you,” Keith grumbles. “Your yawns are contagious.”

“I think all of them are,” Hunk says.

“Science still hasn't explained it,” Pidge adds. “Though one theory says it might be a warning system for pack animals to stay alert for predators.”

“I thought it was increased oxygen to your brain,” Shiro says.

“Does it matter?” Keith says, chuckling.

“It's an unanswered question,” Pidge protests. “There has to be a scientific explanation.”

“Maybe it's just a vestigial organ kinda thing,” Hunk says.

“A what-what,” Lance deadpans.

“An evolutionary not-advantage,” Pidge explains. “But not a detriment, either. And Hunk the vestigial organ theory would back up my theory. Pack animals.”

“I thought bio was a required class at the Garrison?” Keith asks Lance.

“Fuck bio,” Lance mumbles, and then perks up slightly. “You really think I'd remember that from three years ago?”

Keith shrugs. “Your memory sure is stunning for remembering what I yelled at you during arguments.”

Lance pouts, pulling back to stare pitifully at Keith. “I came here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

“Lance, no meme-ing in the hot springs,” Shiro says.

“Especially old memes,” Pidge quips.

“That's a classic!” Lance protests, throwing his hands up in the air and unintentionally sending droplets of water spraying everywhere.

Keith winces as one lands on his nose, and scrunches up his face in distaste.

“I wish I had a camera,” Pidge comments.

“Why?” asks Hunk.

“Because when Keith makes that face it's the most weird-ugly-cute thing I've ever seen and I want to keep it forever.”

Keith tries to school his expression back into something more normal, scowling instead.

“There's a small trading post nearby on Vel'it,” Allura informs them. “We could see if there's anything of interest there.”

“That sounds fun,” Hunk says. “It's been forever since we've stopped at a marketplace.”

“Remember that time Coran made us dress up and we almost got arrested by the mall security?” Lance muses.

“I'm like... Eighty percent sure that was your fault,” Keith tells him.

“Excuse!” Lance retorts. “You're the one who went in brandishing your knife everywhere.”

Keith makes a huffing noise at him. “I wanted to know its history. It's not like its everyday Galra prisoners show up with a knife that good.”

“Where _did_ you get it?” Shiro asks curiously.

“He never told you?” Lance asks, surprised. “I mean I don't know, either, but I figured since you two have been so close for so long, you'd have known.”

Shiro shakes his head, and pins Keith with a soft quizzical expression.

“One of the other prisoners gave it to me.” Keith's brow pulls together, thoughtful. “I think his name might have been Antok? He was kind. Full Galra, but I don't know why he was in the cells.”

Keith tries to keep the memory from flooding to the forefront, but fails, and Lance sucks in a sharp breath in response.

Keith takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to rest against the lip of the pool, grip tightening on Lance slightly. “I'm fine,” Keith breathes out. “That was a long time ago.”

“You watched him die,” Lance whispers.

“What?” Hunk squawks.

“I watched a lot of people die,” Keith says, an air of nonchalance to his voice that even he recognizes is a defense mechanism.

Shiro makes a noncommittal noise across the spring. “That happens when you're with the Galra. Sometimes watching isn't the only thing you do.”

“Jesus fuck, you two are morbid,” Pidge says.

“I think I get it,” Lance says softly. “What Lotor meant. When he sent me back. About not having to go through what you two did.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Shiro and I aren't good people.”

Allura frowns. “Maybe, maybe not,” she says. “But you are both amazing paladins. Amazing friends, and I would not trade either of you for any other to call family.”

“Thanks,” Shiro breathes, using the arm he has draped over Allura's shoulders to tug her close enough to plant a kiss to her forehead.

“You still went through a lot,” Keith tells Lance, a hand ghosting along his side, carefully avoiding actually touching his back.

“It's getting better,” Lance says, leaning on Keith's shoulder again. His wet hair sticks to Keith's neck. “Doesn't hurt anymore.”

“Good,” Keith says.

“Well,” says Hunk, “My toes are pruny. I'm gonna go dry off.”

Lance yawns again. Keith nudges his head with his own. “Are you gonna fall asleep in the hot spring?”

“Absolutely,” Lance mumbles.

“Lance, no,” Keith says.

“Lance, yes.”

“ _Lance_.”

“I'll get him,” Hunk offers, wading over and scooping Lance off of Keith's lap in one movement. Lance lets out a noise akin to a bird screeching, and then gives up, slumping in Hunk's arms.

Keith frowns as they leave.

“Should we be worried about some sort of Galra jealousy thing?” Shiro asks, a little wary, as he observes Keith.

“No,” Keith replies. “My leg's asleep.”

 

 

 

“I can't believe you dragged me out here,” Keith grumbles.

“What were you gonna do if we didn't?” Lance says pointedly.

Keith's ears dip forward self-consciously. “Shiro was gonna help me clean Red,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, _bor-ing_ ,” Lance sing-songs. “Besides I think Space Dad needs some alone time, if you know what I mean.”

“Please, Lance, do _not_ ,” Pidge groans.

Lance turns and waggles his eyebrows at Pidge.

“Besides,” Hunk says, falling in line on Keith's other side. He ruffles a hand through Keith's bangs and brushes over his ears in a few quick swipes. “It's fun to show you off.”

“I'm not an object,” Keith says, scowling.

“No,” says Pidge. “You're a statement.”

Keith's steps pause, going still with quiet surprise. Lance halts a step ahead of him, turning curiously to inquire if anything's wrong.

“Keith?” Hunk asks, concerned.

“I'm... Fine,” Keith says, forcing his limbs to move through his surprise. “You guys just... Don't realize how much you mean to me.” Keith feels himself flush at the admission.

“Aww!” Lance coos, and even though Keith is trying to brush past the swell of emotion that comes with his team's unyielding faith in him, he feels it hit him full force again, coupled with a crushing hug from Hunk.

“Ooh, you mean a lot to us too, Buddy!” Hunk cries, smothering him.

“Stop it,” Keith groans halfheartedly into Hunk's shoulder.

“You guys are saps,” Pidge deadpans.

“You started it!” Keith protests, and Lance—and this is why Keith loves him—swoops in a completely picks Pidge up off the ground, spinning them around in a wild, kinetic hug.

“Put me down!” Pidge screeches, and looks as if they're unsure if they want to grip at Lance for dear life or claw at him to get down.

“You're fine,” Keith says, sucking in clean air as Hunk finally stops trying to kill him via hug. “Lance is strong, and you're tiny.”

Pidge squawks. “And say that to my face, bitch!”

“I... just did?”

Lance sets them down, and Pidge puts as much distance as possible between them. “I hate all of you,” they growl. “All. Of. You.”

“I didn't do anything!” Hunk protests.

“Bystander effect!” Pidge cries.

And then that gets them a couple of odd looks from passersby because by now the group has actually gotten close enough to the small marketplace on this planet that it's probably no longer socially acceptable to scream at each other. That doesn't usually stop them, if Keith and Lance's previous arguments are any precedent to go by, but at least they _try_.

“Oh shit,” Lance breathes, something catching his eye across the clearing, shops dotting the landscape. “I promised I'd find something for Allura. Be right back.”

“Well, bye,” Pidge says sarcastically as Lance hurries off.

“He'll be fine,” Keith says.

“I wasn't _worried_ about him,” Pidge grumbles. “He's just rude.”

“Like you're one to talk,” Hunk retorts, spitfire.

Pidge looks vaguely scandalized. “Hunk, this betray—”

“So, Keith,” Hunk says, “Do you think your Galra senses would be good for telling if fruit is ripe?”

Keith shrugs. “We could try.”

They ignore Pidge's indignant squeak of protest at being spoken over, and Keith holds back laughter. Pidge has been hanging around Lance too much, and his histrionics are starting to rub off on them. He comments as much to Hunk, and Pidge growls in response.

“Fine, then,” they say, turning their chin up at them, though their height lessens the intended effect significantly. “I'll go find Lance.”

“Oh good,” Hunk says, as soon as Pidge is out of earshot. “I think they need to talk some things out, still.”

“Jesus,” Keith breathes, watching Pidge's figure disappear between two stands. “And people think Lance is the devious one of the team.”

“I know,” says Hunk, chuckling. “But that's the best part. Perfect cover.”

“You're the devil,” Keith tells him.

Hunk turns, grinning, with mirth and mischief in his gaze. All in good nature, Keith knows, but it's still scary how well Hunk knows people, sometimes. “I know.”

“Hey, Hunk,” Keith says after a moment of silence, as they wander towards the vendors that seem to carry food items. “You know I'm willing to help you train, right? I know—Red told me Yellow doesn't have any past knowledge for you to work off of.”

Keith isn't expecting the laughter, bright and surprised. “Yeah, yeah,” Hunk says, through chuckles. “I know I can ask for help Keith. But Yellow's not ignorant.”

“What?”

“Yellow's just the only one of the lions who can shut off the bond,” Hunk shrugs. “His specialty is defense, and that includes mentally.”

“Oh,” Keith says intelligently. “Then—why...” He shuts his mouth before he says something that offends Hunk.

“Why am I bad at fighting?” Hunk supplies.

“You're not bad,” Keith says instantly.

“Why I'm not as good as the rest of you then,” Hunk amends. “Because I don't like it. And I have good mental wards too. It took me and Yellow a while to get on the same page. You'd be surprised what holding secrets for so long does to you.” Hunk regards him for a heartbeat. “I know why you got kicked from the Garrison.”

Keith scowls. “That's not that big of a secret. I punched Iverson.”

“I know they called you bloodthirsty, something unnatural. I know you were part of the reason they sent out the Kerberos mission, indirectly, because Shiro was pushing for finding out more about what's out here. I know Lance had a crush on you since before then. I know Pidge looks up to you, a lot, even when they're pissy. I know there are things we've seen both on Earth and in space that I never want to see again, and above all else I wish I never have to give someone else the weight of that knowledge.”

Keith feels his ears flatten back slightly. “I'm sorry, Hunk,” he says.

“Don't be,” Hunk replies, nonchalant.

“What about Shay?” Keith asks softly.

Hunk is silent. Then: “Shay knows everything.”

And Keith gets it, because all those rules about interacting with people, about keeping friends safe by hiding painful truths, all the secrets tucked under layers and layers of defenses—everything goes out the window when it comes to someone you love.

Keith gets it.

Hunk smiles, soft, and then turns to the merchant they've slowly been approaching, and starts chatting and bartering as if there had been nothing wrong a moment before.

And really, Keith gets that too. Not because this is what Voltron has made them, not because they have to hide the pain they've seen, not because they're soldiers in an impossible war, but because they've grown up.

 

 

 

Lance stretches languidly, groaning in satisfaction when his back pops.

Keith makes an appreciative noise from where he's sitting on the bed, curled up amongst the pillows, and Lance laughs.

“I got something for you,” he says, digging something out from the pocket of his jacket that he'd discarded over the back of a chair.

It's a small box, and Keith quirks an eyebrow at Lance. “I didn't get you anything.”

“Doesn't matter,” says Lance, depositing the gift into Keith's hands as he settles next to him on the bed. “I, uh... I have the bite mark. No matter what, I'm yours, but I don't have anything in return to mark you, so I thought... Just open it.”

Keith lets out a soft sound, some sort of memory of a once-strong purr, but Lance relaxes against him anyway, shoulder pressing into Keith's. Keith is careful with his claws as he opens the box, and then feels his throat tighten.

“It's blue,” says Lance. “I thought it was fitting.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes around the lump in his throat. The pendant is a small rock, with metal holding it in place, and Lance's tastes are good because it _is_ pretty, but that's not what Keith notices. The chain it hangs on, cool under his fingertips, is distinctly familiar. It could be a coincidence. It _should_ be, but...

“Do you like it?” Lance asks.

“You can't tell?” Keith whispers.

“Your head is real messy right now,” Lance says.

“Yeah,” Keith says, and his voice cracks. “Yeah, I like it.”

“Something's wrong.”

Keith gingerly takes the necklace from its place, and slips it carefully over his head. “I don't—I don't think I ever told you. Not all of it, at least.” Turning, he brushes his finger over the faint scar on Lance's cheekbone. “I've seen this before.”

“The necklace?”

“This,” Keith says, pressing a bit more firmly on the scar. “And the necklace. And your back. In a nightmare, or a vision—something. Maybe both. We were home—you're family... The pendant wasn't there anymore. I had a wedding ring. Yours, or mine? Or however that works. We were married.”

“Oh boy,” Lance says, punctuated by a low whistle. “I will admit that is a lot less terrifying than what else you could have said.”

Keith reaches up, thumbing over the pendant, then running his fingers over the chain. “I think you tried to kill me.”

“Jesus!” Lance starts, shifting to look at Keith with wide eyes. “Like _actually_ kill you?”

Keith scowls. “What does kill usually mean, Lance?” he snaps, a bit harsher than he meant, and the apology seeps over their bond before Keith can voice it.

“Sorry,” Lance breathes, taking Keith's hand in his.

“I just...” Keith makes a displeased noise. “Most of the time when Red lets me see the future, I can't tell what leads up to it. She forces me to run on instinct and impulse because those reactions are more true than trying to change what will happen. Making decisions on my own can really fuck things up.”

“But what if you have visions so you can change things?” Lance asks. His thumb brushes soothingly over Keith's knuckles.

“I... Don't know,” Keith admits. “I'm scared. Scared of changing things. Scared I'll make it worse. So I just do what feels natural. That's what a red paladin is supposed to do, at least.”

Lance looks thoughtfully down at their clasped hands. “I can't promise I won't become whatever you saw.”

Keith stays silent, and tries to keep his mind carefully blank.

He fails.

“You're afraid of it, too,” Lance says. “But I also trust you to make the right decisions, Keith. You've helped bring us this far. Don't give up hope now.”

Keith rests his head on Lance's shoulder, and tastes the somber mood in the air. “That was the first time I'd seen past the war. I don't know how much of it was true, but dammit, Lance, we were _happy_. Actually happy. I—I had a family. You g-gave me a family. I've never met them and somehow I miss them. I miss what could be.”

“Me too,” Lance replies.

“I'm sorry,” Keith chokes out.

 _Shay knows everything_. A reminder.

That's the thing about falling in love: there are no more boundaries. Keith shares Lance's pain.

He feels the ache of a home he never had.

“We need to do it,” Lance says, and Keith knows what he means because the thought comes to his mind, too.

Pidge is right. They have to go after the Galra.

They could end this. They need to end this. Lance's determination comes with an air of caution, in the same way Keith feels worry and vengeance pulse through him.

“I'm not ready,” Lance continues. “But I feel like we're running out of time, so this is as good as I'm ever going to be.”

“We can wait for you,” Keith tells him.

“No,” says Lance. “You just said you follow what you gut tells you. This—this is the right time, Keith. I'm trusting my instincts, and I'm trusting yours. You've seen this already, you know the outcome.”

Keith tilts his head back against the wall, a tired gesture of some greater knowledge weighing on him. “Okay,” he breathes. “We'll do it. You'll have to convince Allura.”

Lance makes a soft noise, a half-sigh. “I already did. While we were in the market, I got you something pretty, and I got Allura intel. Get some rest, Keith. I know you haven't been sleeping.”

Keith sinks down, curling into Lance's side, with his head pillowed on Lance's legs. Lance starts singing, a song from previous dream, and Keith let's his voice lull him into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: panic attacks, canon-typical violence, memes, way too much foreshadowing (or perhaps the culmination of foreshadowing)


	18. Night Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to finish this off all in one go in terms of uploading chapters.

“ _I live in the present because the future is always chancy. When it comes to being with you, I'm willing to take the risk.”_

\- _The Exiled Queen_ by Cinda Williams Chima

 

“Pidge, what's your location?”

“I'm at the satellite base,” Pidge reports over the comms. “Everything's on lockdown here, so it might take me a bit to get through everything. Shiro's standing guard. Hunk's on your end, but playing defenses. That cloaking implant on Yellow is holding up so far, but I can't promise for how long. You two in?”

“We made it,” Lance says, and Keith hears the echo of his voice, once in front of him and once over the comms. “Red and Blue are on standby but have Hunk keep an eye on them just in case.”

“I can't divert the power systems to keep communications on for you guys, so this is it. If you get a chance—”

“We'll grab what we can for Matt,” Keith assures.

“Thanks,” Pidge breathes. “I know you don't think—”

“Save it,” says Lance. “We'll discuss after.”

It's an optimistic statement, the same sort of confidence than might get them killed.

But Red thrums soothingly through Keith's bones, reminds him that she's seen the expanse of the future and helped to set him on this path. It's not as comforting as it should be. Slowly, they start making their way through the dim hallways. The hair on Keith's neck stands on end.

“This feels like a trap,” Keith says.

“Yup,” Lance replies, with a long exhale. He hasn't summoned his bayard, but his gloved hand twitches at his side, and Keith's ears flick uncomfortably under his helmet, sharing the sentiment.

“We've should have kept you with Pidge,” says Keith, and feels the small flash of indignation from Lance before he finishes. “We could still communicate.”

“Oh,” Lance says, realizing what Keith means, and not that he's unfit for the mission. “I don't know that any other pair would be able to get through this.”

“Shiro—”

“Keith, even Hunk and I don't work as well together as we do,” Lance murmurs, peering slowly around a corner and then gesturing for Keith to follow.

“We failed last time,” Keith blurts. Lance would have heard his thoughts anyway, but he still flinches at the was the words sound on his tongue.

“So it's time for a redemption,” Lance argues, squaring his shoulders. He steps further into the hallway. “Something's wrong. There's _no_ one here.”

“It was too easy getting in, too,” Keith says.

“Well...” starts Lance, looking around, tense.

“I'm going for the control room,” Keith decides, and moves off the wall.

“I thought you said this could be a trap,” Lance replies, as Keith stalks past him.

“We're already here. If it's a trap, it's too late.”

“Keith,” Lance says, and for a moment, Keith freezes.

It occurs to him what he's doing: running off again, because that why Lance left in the first place. Because Keith was always too rash. Something in his voice speaks a warning, and it chills Keith to the bone.

But Lance just sends him a comforting smile as he jogs to catch up. “We're going together.”

Keith's heart still feels warm as they reach the main deck.

“Pidge wasn't expecting us this far in yet,” Lance mumbles, eying the keypad next to the doors. “Time to go the old-fashioned way, I guess.”

He raises his hand, and then Keith hears the crackle and sizzle of fried electronics, though he can't see the sparks, and Lance sends him a wary grin.

“I don't think that's old-fashioned,” Keith says dryly.

Lance flips him off.

They're both nervous, Keith can tell, if not through their bond, at least in the way they're keeping up with the stupid banter, unnecessarily talkative.

There's a startled yelp from inside the room, and Keith's hook swords at the ready in an instant, except that he's affronted so strongly by Lance's surprised disbelief that his movements stutter.

“What the fuck,” Keith deadpans as he stumbles into the room.

“W-well,” says a voice, too familiar for comfort. “I hadn't foreseen...”

“Yeah?” Keith quips, fighting the growl in his throat at the sight of Lotor. “I think Red has a favorite.”

Lotor mouth quirks into a sneer, but he shrugs nonchalantly, composure recovered, and goes to draw his scimitar from what Keith presumes to be the Galra commander of this station. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

“Why are you here,” Lance demands.

“Start talking,” Keith orders.

Lotor quirks an eyebrow at him. “Why would I?” He grins, all teeth. “You can't beat me.”

Keith feels the growl fall from his lips. When Lotor raises a hand, Keith braces himself for the onslaught of Altean magic.

Instead, he hears Lance's soft noise of shock and pain.

His body goes cold.

He feels Lance's panic stab through his gut, enough to make Keith gasp for air.

“You have a weakness,” says Lotor coolly.

Keith swallows. “You wouldn't,” he manages. “You care too much, too.”

Lotor blinks at him, a slow realization, and then sends Keith a sad smile.

Keith feels the air leave his lungs, chasing Lance's, and then Lance falls, coughing, to the floor. Keith wants nothing more than to go to him, but Lance blearily protests against Keith's mind.

“Unfortunately, you know me too well, already, little brother.”

“We start there,” Keith says, trying to give a harshness to his voice when it's currently drowning in worry. “How?”

Lotor shrugs, a disinterested move that contrasts with the work of his jaw. “Zarkon sired you, as he did I.”

“What did you mean it wouldn't be the first time?”

“Zarkon favors the dead over the living.”

Keith growls. “Stop speaking in riddles.”

Lotor pins him with a dead stare, unamused. “Mates mean everything—you should know that—and our father is no exception.”

“So Zinnia _is_ alive?” Lance asks, hoarse, from where he's crouched on the ground.

“Alive is relative. She is a body with no soul. My father has been trying to manufacture her quintessence in order to find it and keep her vessel breathing, but in the meantime, he's given up his own, and neglected the worlds he conquered.”

“Why are you here?” Keith demands, gesturing at the body of the dead general. “Why not just leave?”

Lotor treats him to another sad smirk, saccharine and sorrowful. “We aren't so different, little brother. We are both half-Galra.”

For a moment, Lotor lets the facade drop, and Keith can see through the shift. His actual appearance does not change, but where skin was smooth moments before it is now littered with raised lines, memories of the knife and whip, and sympathy, unbidden but embedded into Keith's being, laces through him. Keith swallows hard, throat tight with an echo of pain.

“I want this system to end,” Lotor says.

“You could help us,” Lance offers.

 _Bad idea_ , Keith tells him.

 _He's a powerful ally_.

 _He's still an_ enemy _._

“You would never trust me,” Lotor says with a sigh, as if he can read their mental exchange. His gaze on Lance is filled with a distant longing, and perhaps regret, and it makes Keith feel sick. “Not really. Even if you pretend to. Perhaps you could learn to forgive, Kitten, but your team would not. Your mate might sympathize with me, but our shared abuse is not enough to look past the fact I was once a threat to you.

“For now,” Lotor continues. “Our goals align, but once Zarkon is removed from the throne, I intend to take over. At my side, you would not be fighting for a free universe, but instead a less malicious dictator.”

“What if we just killed you now?” Keith growls.

“Then you would add another powerful faction to your enemies, where otherwise we would not interfere with each other. Besides, Keith, it's not time yet, and you know that. You've seen it. Patience yields focus, brother, remember that.”

Lance slowly rises from the ground, and Lotor's gaze follows his movements.

There seems to be a sort of silent understanding passing between them, but no, Lance's mind is blank, wary of him. He goes to Keith's side, slips his hand into Keith's, a choice made even when question was unclear.

“Thank you,” Lance breathes.

Lotor regards him for a moment, unreadable, and then turns and walks from the room.

 

 

 

“I don't get it,” Pidge says, brow furrowed, as they walk into the lounge and plop unceremoniously onto the couch, half on top of Hunk. “There wasn't anything there, but all the information I had said there was, and the system was so poorly defended that I'm pretty sure I've got every record they had.”

“There, there,” Hunk says absently, putting an arm around Pidge's shoulders in a half-hug, knowing the way they hate the air of unfinished business surrounding Voltron's most recent mission.

Keith tilts his head back, resting against the back of the couch in a low slump. Wearily, he reaches up to turn off his headband, carefully prying it from his head.

Next to him, Lance makes a sympathetic noise.

“Too much,” Keith mutters as way of explanation.

“Everything is,” Lance murmurs back.

The sound of footsteps over the faint echo of ringing in Keith's ears, then: “Okay, we're all here. What happened out there?”

Keith winces at the sound of Shiro's voice, loud in the relative silence.

“We ran into Lotor?” says Lance, voice tilting up into a question. “Holy shit, everything feels really surreal.”

“What?” comes Allura's commanding tone, though there's no harshness in the question.

“The ship was empty,” Lance continues, pressing closer to Keith on instinct. “We ran into Lotor and saw him kill the commander and then kinda had a... argument? A discussion? What's the difference? Is my voice still wrecked?”

Keith feels over with his hand, soothing over Lance's thigh once he finds it. “You're rambling,” he says softly. “It's okay.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lance breathes, and Keith feels him shudder underneath his palm. “I have no idea what just happened. Holy shit. Are we alive. Am I alive. I don't—”

“Deep breath, Lance,” Shiro instructs calmly.

Lance obeys, and it seems to quell some of the racing thoughts. “Okay, okay. So nothing we didn't already suspect? Zinnia is kind of alive. Zarkon's trying to zombie-Frankenstein her soul.”

“Frankenstein?” Allura asks, at the same time Pidge makes a displeased noise.

“I thought we agreed on no more literature references,” they grumble.

“Is it working?” Shiro asks, and it's Allura's turn to make a disconcerted grumble at being ignored. “It's a book,” Shiro explains to her, softer. “A doctor creates a monster by combining various body parts.”

“It's bad science, anyway,” Pidge mumbles.

“Anyway!” Hunk says loudly, trying to get everyone back on track.

“I don't think he's making much progress?” Lance says. “But something Allura said, earlier, and Coran and... Anyway, the lions would be the last main source of Altean quintessence, so maybe that's why he's after them so badly, rather than just destroying them.”

“Regardless of Zarkon's motives,” Allura says pensively. “We need a plan.”

“Lotor must have fucked with the system,” Pidge says. “Which is why I could get into it so easily and get everything out. It'll take some time to translate since it's ciphered, but we can probably work out a new plan of attack from that.”

“Sounds good,” Shiro says. “How quickly can that get done?”

“A week, max?” Pidge says. “Depends. Couple days if I'm lucky.”

“I'll help,” Hunk offers. “But maybe after a nap.”

“Yes, you all deserve a rest after the anxiety of the day,” Allura says. “I'll see if our Vel'it informant has picked up anything.”

Her footsteps fade into the distance.

“Are you okay?” Hunk asks in Keith's direction, but Lance is replying before he can completely determine which one of them Hunk was asking.

“Fine,” Lance says, too quick. “Fine, totally fine.”

Keith gives Lance's leg a soft squeeze, an attempt at comfort, and Lance's fingers brush over the back of his hand in response.

“It's fine to not be okay,” Shiro tells Lance, and there's the sound of movement and the couch shifts as he joins them.

“Yeah, I know,” Lance says, and seems to have gotten his hysterics under control a bit better. “I just... Need time to process. I never—I never thought I'd actually have to _fight_ Lotor, and he almost killed me, except I also know he wouldn't, and that's _weird_ because I shouldn't know that because he's the enemy but... I don't know? I don't know how to respond to that.”

Keith grunts an agreement. “Shiro?”

“That's an appropriate response, Lance,” Shiro assures. “What's up, Keith?”

“Where did you get that phrase: 'patience yields focus'?”

Shiro doesn't respond for a moment, possibly thinking. “I must have picked it up while in captivity. Maybe the other prisoners? Either that or from the Holts on the Kerberos.”

Pidge snorts disbelievingly. “Patience? _Matt_? Doubt it.”

“Lotor said it to me,” Keith tells him.

“That's... odd. I guess it must have been the former, then.”

“I think it might be a Blade of Marmora thing.”

Shiro hums an acknowledgment. “Perhaps. But I think that might a question for another day. Will you guys be okay?”

“I think so,” Lance says, though his voice is a little timid. “Where are you going?”

“Just to help Allura,” Shiro says. “And then spend some time with Black. It might be a good idea for all of us to bond with our lions some, but get some rest first, all of you.”

Keith huffs. “I think Red and I are good. She hasn't _stopped_ talking to me.”

“Well I'm probably going to stay up all night with a cup of really bad tea and code, so I'm going to go take a nap,” Pidge announces.

“Stay here,” says Hunk. “Cuddle with us.”

“Yeah, no thanks. I think I've finally perfected the blanket fort.”

Hunk sighs. “I don't think your nest of stolen blankets really counts as a bed anymore, Pidge.”

“Shut up,” Pidge snaps, without any malice. “I'm small and it's comfy.”

“So you admit it. You're tiny,” Keith says tiredly.

“I'm leaving,” Pidge says, too loud.

Keith finds himself laughing despite it all.

Lance curls towards the sound, drawn in to the rumble of Keith's chest and the warmth of his body. Hunk shifts on the couch, sitting on Lance's other side, and Lance sinks more deeply in between them, snuggled into Hunk's and Keith's bodies.

“You guys are the best,” he mumbles, slowly lacing his fingers with Keith's.

“I know,” Hunk says, and his grin audible in his voice.

“It's okay,” Lance says, voice still pitched up with nerves, but at least sounding more soothed. “Whatever's going to happen, Keith's seen beyond it. We'll be okay.”

Keith stiffens, wonders if Lance reads the action correctly, and tries to carefully hide his thoughts before they reach Lance.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers and forces a purr from his chest, stuttering like a foreign language on his tongue from disuse. But it echoes between them, and Lance hums back as he rests his head on Keith's shoulder.

Hunk runs a hand up Lance's arm in comfort, maybe for warmth. “We've got you, Buddy. You guys should both get some sleep. I'll stay up if you want me too.”

“Thanks, Hunk,” Lance says sincerely.

 

 

 

It starts with an offhanded comment at the end of a slow day. The team is in a sort of purgatory waiting for Hunk and Pidge to finish decoding the information from the last mission, and Allura and Shiro are keeping the Castle of Lions out of Galra radars in the meantime, meaning Lance and Keith are left to their own devices.

To recover, probably, except that they're both too tense to really rest.

Until: “I bet I can think of something that will tire us out.”

Keith's ears perk towards Lance, only semiconsciously. “Seriously?” he says, and tries to mask his hope under disinterest.

Lance grins, flirty and unabashed, and sits up on Keith's bed. “Let's explore.”

Keith flushes. “I hate you,” he mumbles from his place in a nearby chair, where he had been shining a knife. “You're a tease.”

Lance pulls himself up in a smooth movement, padding over to tilt Keith's head up and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Come on,” he murmurs against Keith's skin. “I'm not opposed to that either, but I have an idea.”

Lance tugs at Keith's hand, pulling him out of the chair. Keith only manages to set the knife down before he's dragged away, but he lets himself be tugged along, trailing after Lance through the empty hallways. They slip through the dim of the Castle's blue lights, wandering into the less inhabited halls where once royalty flourished. Lance's steps are sure as he leads the way.

“You planned this,” Keith accuses.

Lance hums a soft sound, but Keith can feel the mischievous intent leak across their bond. “Maybe,” he says, not at all hiding the fact.

Keith tugs slightly on Lance's hand, stalling him. “You sure?”

Lance turns to look at him, and smiles. “We need to relax,” he says, and pulls Keith along another few steps until he can reach a panel on the wall. The door slides open and suddenly Keith is dragged into the room. “What better way?”

Keith only vaguely remembers the lavishness of the room from when he had his sight, and now, with the lack of color, the glitter of the decor no longer shines. Still, the large room was once made for noblemen, and Lance coaxes Keith over to the large bed with the sway of his hips.

Lance turns, sitting on the end of the bed, trapping Keith between his legs and the circle of his arms, resting over Keith's hips. Lance looks up at him with a fond expression, resting his chin on Keith's stomach.

Keith cards his fingers carefully through Lance's hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and Lance hums contentedly.

“I had thought...” Keith says softly, fingertips caressing the back of Lance's neck. “That you wouldn't want to, after everything... I—I took a really long time to be okay with physical contact.”

“I know you won't hurt me,” Lance says, and Keith can tell how sure he is. Lance's fingers tighten on Keith's hips, thumbs slipping under his shirt to brush over his hips. “I want your touch to be the only one I remember.”

Keith's breath hitches. God, it's been so easy to forget intimacy under the threats and the lingering pain, but here, with Lance watching him lovingly, he _wants_.

“Kiss me?” Lance asks, but Keith is already leaning down to meet his lips.

And this, this was never really lost between them, but Keith still feels like it's been ages. All their affection since they got Lance back has been in the form of light brushes of lips and soft touches, all comfort, with passion tucked away for a better day. Keith feels arousal simmer through him, and Lance grins against his mouth.

Lance's hands stray up to Keith's shoulders, fleeting attempts at pulling him down, ghost touches of encouragement until Keith is pressing against Lance as if it was entirely his idea. Lance shuffles back further on the soft bed, and Keith goes with him, chasing his lips and touch and warmth. He presses Lance into the mattress, shifting until he lines up their hips.

Lance gasps against Keith's mouth, hands splaying under Keith's shirt and pushing it up as his nails scratch lightly over Keith's back in needy little gestures. Keith tilts his head, adding more heat to the kiss as he sucks Lance's bottom lip into his mouth and lets a hand wander to Lance's hip, tracing over the shape of the bone there.

The kisses stay slow, even as Lance hooks a leg over Keith's hip and drags him closer with the pressure on his back. He tilts his head back with a breathy exhale, which Keith chases, moving with him, and captures his lips again, swallowing down Lance's gasp. Without Lance's persuasion, Keith rolls his hips over Lance's, a slow grind that has Lance groaning into Keith's mouth. Keith feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips, and in retaliation, Lance nips at his lips, playful tugs and soft kisses to soothe after.

This close, this attentive to each other, their mental barriers drop, and Keith is moving back to pull off his shirt before Lance's mind turns the want into cohesive thought. He does take a bit more care with the necklace, though, carefully placing it on the nightstand before returning to Lance's lap. Lance lifts himself up, sitting up to pull his own shirt off and then pressing a kiss to Keith's collarbone. Keith finds himself brushing a hand through the hair at Lance's nape, urging Lance on as he peppers soft kisses over Keith's neck. Keith presses closer, letting his knees slip on the sheets so that he settles more firmly in Lance's lap.

He feels the warm press of Lance's dick against his inner thigh, so near to where Keith's wants it, but then Lance drags his teeth over Keith's collarbone and latches on and Keith is lost to that sensation instead. Lance sucks the skin between his teeth, worrying it until he pulls back with a wet noise and a wave of satisfaction. He kisses over what almost surely is a forming bruise, and Keith shudders, the spot tender.

“It's not a mating mark,” Lance says, a little forlornly, and his lips brush over Keith's chest as he speaks in little butterfly kisses. “But you look gorgeous with hickeys. I wish you could see.”

Keith feels his skin tingle with warmth, coupled by the sincerity that he can feel from Lance, and his hand tightens slightly in Lance's hair while the other comes to Lance's shoulder.

Lance stiffens slightly, and Keith realizes with a start of apology that he's brushed just barely over the Galra implant where it reaches up the bitemark on Lance's shoulder.

“It's okay,” Lance breathes, though it's a bit uneven. “I want only you, remember?” He presses a soft, slow kiss to Keith's shoulder. “Touch me, please.”

“Okay,” Keith whispers. “But come here.”

They work in tandem: the way Lance tilts his head up at the same time the hand Keith has on the back of his neck slides around to rest on his jaw, and then they're kissing again. Carefully, Keith rests his palm more firmly on Lance's shoulder, thumb pressing into the mating mark and feeling a rush of _mine_. Lance shivers as Keith gently traces the Galra tech down Lance's back. His skin a bit warmer than the living metal under Keith's palm, but even as Keith reaches along his spine, Lance never pulls away—only presses up closer to Keith, parting his lips in open invitation.

Keith takes advantage of the gesture, slipping his tongue to map Lance's mouth. He knows Lance so well, and yet he tastes like he'll never know enough, like there's always something more to learn, and Lance moves against him, eager for the same. Keith lets his other hand join in caressing over Lance's back, and he drinks in the soft sound escaping between their lips.

Lance's hands begin to wander, as he eases into the touch on his back. They skim up Keith's thighs, ghost over his hips, and come to rest just over the curve of his ass, squeezing appreciatively. Keith takes it as motivation to roll his hips against Lance, and Lance helps to adjust him until they line up and Keith feels pressure over his cock. He groans, and Lance's grip tightens for a moment, and then disappears until he feels the brush of fingertips over the skin of his navel.

 _No rush_ , Keith tells him, though the thought isn't very coherent. Lance still gets the memo, but continues working the button on Keith's pants. Lance breaks the kiss and placates Keith with a swift press of lips to his jaw.

“No,” Lance says, breath fanning over Keith's neck as Lance ducks his head to focus on his hands. “But I want your dick in my mouth.”

“Oh,” Keith gasps out, and Lance gets Keith's pants open, and then urges Keith out of his lap so he can take them off.

Keith scrambles off the bed, dropping his pants on the floor where their shirts have been forgotten, and Lance follows, standing and settling his hands over Keith's hips to start easing his boxers down. Keith bites his lip as Lance lowers himself with Keith's underwear, pressing kisses to Keith's thighs as he drops to his knees. Lance nips at the soft skin on the inside curve of Keith's legs and Keith feels his cock twitch in reaction.

Lance grins against his skin, then turns and licks teasingly along the side of Keith's dick.

“No one is gonna hear us,” Lance says, and Keith's not sure why he mentions that until he realizes he's halfway to biting his knuckles to stifle any potential noises.

Keith lets out a whimper in response, forcing his hand to his side, and Lance takes it in his, placing it on the back of his head. Keith automatically threads his fingers through Lance's hair, holding carefully but not commanding, and Lance hums appreciatively, licking another stripe over Keith's heated skin in reward.

Lance's hand then slides up Keith's leg, over his hip, and then takes Keith's free hand, holding him in place. With the other, he wraps his fingers around Keith's dick, adding a few slow pumps to the kittenish licks he's placing just under the head. Keith hisses at the contact, some mix of relief and ungrounded distress because he wants more. He opens his mouth to plead with Lance for exactly that, but Lance is already moving, licking his lips and taking Keith into his mouth in one smooth movement that has Keith feeling weak.

 _You're beautiful_ , Lance conveys over the bond, a fresh wave of arousal ricocheting between them both. The purr that stutters out of Keith's chest is tentative, but loud, and neither of them have felt this _okay_ for such a long time, and it's overwhelming.

Lance makes a distinctly pleased noise, and it reverberates through Keith. There's a sense of contentedness that comes with watching the person he's fallen in love with be _happy_ , something they'd both thought so far out of reach. Lance runs his tongue along the underside of Keith's dick, looking up at Keith with heat in his gaze.

 _Missed you. Missed this. Missed watching you fall apart. It finally feels like everything is right. You're gorgeous._ Lance's thoughts are unhindered and rapid-fire, leaving Keith feeling like it's all too much, but not enough. So close.

A moan interrupts the purr, then is choked out by it, and Lance's eyes crinkle with a grin, even as he's very gently grazing his teeth over the head of Keith's cock. He's about to go down again, but Keith tugs gently on his hair, and Lance pulls off completely.

Keith whimpers at the loss of contact, but manages a breathy: “I-I'm gonna... Not yet.”

Lance licks the spit from his lips, then presses a kiss to Keith's hip. Another, and then bites down, sucking on the skin until the tenderness of it draws a groan from Keith. “You know,” Lance says amiably, though his voice is rough. Meticulously, he begins marking up Keith's thighs with the indents of his teeth. “Your necklace isn't the only thing I got at the market.”

“Y-yeah?” Keith replies, breath hitching when Lance works over a previous spot, and his skin heats with sensitivity.

“I got something for us, too. We had an issue with your claws before, and I can't exactly help that, but... I think you'll like this.”

“Lance,” Keith says, half-scolding, but not at all actually upset. Because if Lance wanted this to be a surprise, he should have cloaked his mind better. “You bought a dildo.”

Lance licks at the bead of precum on the tip of Keith's dick, looking satisfied. He smacks his lips once, then replies, “Yup.”

“Please tell me Pidge wasn't with you.”

“No, they got distracted by someone selling tech parts.”

“Thank God.”

Rising to his feet, Lance trails his hands over Keith's legs, pressing his thumbs into the sensitive spots left by past kisses as he goes. Keith draws Lance close, unconsciously bucking forward when the friction of Lance's boxers against him sends pleasure sparking up his spine, and Lance's hands reach around to grab Keith's ass and pull them flush together. Nudging Lance's jaw with his nose, Keith mouths over the jut of his collarbone, then presses canine-sharp kisses to his neck, a hint of promise and the memory of mating lingering under the gestures.

But Keith doesn't bite, instead moving upwards, leaving a trail of wet kisses along Lance's jaw, to nibble at the cusp of his ear. His breath fans over slicked skin, and Lance shivers. “You want to get ready?”

Lance bites his lip, drawing it slowly between his teeth because he's putting on a show of it, teasing. “You ready for me?” he taunts.

“Are you?” Keith fires back, and reaches up to press his thumb against Lance's bottom lip, claw catching as he drags it down but not breaking skin. It's enough to have Lance's breath hitching, and then he's slipping out of Keith's arms and heading to one of the bedside tables.

For a moment, Lance rummages through the drawer, and then tosses a bottle onto the bed, followed by a relatively phallic shape that Keith can't help but snort at. Lance sends him a halfhearted glare, but then sheds his boxers and climbs onto the large bed, settling comfortably in the middle.

Keith starts forward, and Lance, in the process of dribbling lube on his fingers, sends Keith an intent sense of _no, wait_.

“I wanna...” Keith says, and lets his wandering thoughts show Lance how much he wants to pepper kisses over his collarbone, leave his skin marked by teeth just sharp enough to be dangerous, ghost fingers over Lance's straining thighs as he fucks himself on his own fingers.

But Lance just ignores him in favor of sinking onto a finger, head tipping back as he arches into his own touch. “J-just watch,” he says, after a moment, and Keith is pleased at how breathless he sounds.

It makes him want to disobey, to go to Lance.

Lance grins, body jerking with sensation as he changes the angle of his wrist. “Don't... Don't you w-want to be a good boy?” he asks, teasing even under the wispy quality of his tone.

Keith feels himself flush, chest warm with the praise, and he whines, a plead for Lance's attention, for more and less at the same time. Because he wants Lance. He doesn't want teasing. He wants to make Lance feel good, wants to go slow and soft and remind Lance how much Keith treasures him. He wants to taste every scar left on Lance's body and draw the poison out with his kiss.

“I missed this, missed you, want you,” Lance whispers, and Keith's honestly not sure if he hears the words at all or if they're being fed directly to his mind. Lance lets out a gasp, a little contented sound that has Keith itching to move forward. But then Lance draws Keith in with the bond, flooding it with his own senses, and the heat in Keith's stomach is at least a little sated by the wash of pleasure, all Lance's.

Keith swallows thickly, and another whimper rumbles through him. “I want you,” he says softly. “Lance, please.”

“Hmm,” Lance says, a humming noise that says he's teasing.

Except that Keith can feel the response from Lance before it forms on his tongue, and he's flushing with thoughts of _you've been good, so patient, come here_. It takes a moment for Keith to convince his limbs to move, but then he's on the bed, hands reaching out to catch Lance as he barrels into him, kissing him like he's the air Keith needs to breathe. Maybe he is—maybe this is all Keith needs to live, his mate in his arms, happy, sated, _his_.

The warmth of their bodies mingles between them, and Lance licks into Keith's mouth messily, whimpering occasionally as he works his fingers into himself further.

 _Need you_ , Lance tells him, panting against Keith's lips, and Keith moves to kiss Lance's jawline, taking his turn to tease.

“Let me...” Keith presses a kiss just under Lance's ear, and then drags his teeth across Lance's neck. “Let me touch you.”

Lance nods, a jerky movement, and pulls his hand back, wiping the lube on his fingers off on the bed. Keith snorts at him because he knows Lance is gonna complain if he touches that later, and proceeds to ignore Lance's glare. He reaches for the dildo, dropped amongst the sheets, and swipes lube over it, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Lance's mouth.

“Turn around,” Keith says, and Lance scrambles to comply, snagging one of the many pillows to cling to. He arches his back, putting on a show, and Keith lets out a low whistle that has Lance letting out a breathy chuckle.

Keith leans down, kisses the base of Lance's spine, just at the end of the vein of Galra tech. Lance, for a moment, tenses, and Keith rubs a hand soothingly against his hip. “Okay?”

“M'fine,” Lance replies, voice muffled by the pillow.

“You wanted to just remember my touch,” Keith says, tone shy. “So everywhere they touched you, I'm going to replace it with something better.”

Pressing forward, Keith holds himself up on one side of Lance, stretching out to tangle their legs together, and brushes his lips over the highest reaching vein of metal on Lance's shoulder. Lance shivers, and he turns to look at Keith, gaze glassy, and then he turns back to hide his face in the pillow as Keith starts easing the toy into him.

He works slowly, starting at Lance's shoulders and moving down, all while far too slowly working the toy deeper. With each ghost of his lips, Lance tenses and then sighs out a soft noise of memory, of a time when things were better, and the press of his tongue is a reminder of heated moments shared between them. The gentle scrape of Keith's teeth over Lance's skin is a symbol of their bond, intimate and strong and healing.

It's quintessence, Keith thinks, but as it should be: pure, kind, merciful.

Keith's in the middle of lapping between Lance's shoulder blades—caressing the Galran tech, and under that, the scars left from whips Keith knows too well—when Lance groans and shifts, pushing back against Keith. He lets out a whimper, a quiet plead: _faster, please Keith, please._

“But you look so pretty like this,” Keith says, letting the warmth of his breath pass over Lance's skin. A chaste kiss, then he sucks on a new spot, grazing with his teeth in careful movements.

Lance is having none of it. He pushes back again, lifting his ass into the air and moaning when he takes more of the toy in at the same time his movement makes Keith's teeth break skin.

“Lance,” Keith scolds, though there's more concern than anything as he pulls back to watch the tiny drops of blood bead out from the small wounds.

“Don't c-care,” Lance huffs. “F-fuck me.”

“Impatient,” Keith taunts, and licks over the tiny wounds. It rushes through him.

“I'm g-good,” Lance insists, voice a high whine and broken. “ _Pleas—_ ” Lance gets halfway through the word before he chokes on the sound as Keith presses the toy further. The moan falling from his lips, saturating the pillow he holds, doesn't interrupt his thoughts, though. _Keith, Keith. Come on. You're so good, so good for me, so good to me_ , Lance begs, _Take care of me_.

And it's the last plea that has Keith letting out a low groan against Lance's skin. Lance has learned a lot about the mating bond now that there's no Galra bullshit to get in the way, and he plays off of Keith's instincts to provide, to protect, to give his all to Lance. Maybe if Lance was Galra, Keith could fire right back, but there's a certain degree of adoration that comes with the knowledge that all of Lance's choices are his own.

That despite everything, Lance still wants him.

And Keith has always thought of himself as weak.

So he shifts his wrist until Lance is moaning, arching his back with a litany of “God, yes, yes, thank you, _God_.” Keith wonders, for a moment, if he's thanking him or God for finally giving Lance what he wants.

He starts up a slow pace, enough to keep Lance from complaining, but still not _enough_. Lance pushes back against Keith's hand, trying to thrust the toy deeper into himself with his own movement, but Keith plants his hand on Lance's hip, holding him in place, careful with his claws but grip tight. Lance whimpers, and Keith hears a fleeting though from his mind that he hopes Keith's fingers leave bruises.

As if Lance wasn't already marked as his.

“Are you going to behave?” Keith prompts, licking a stripe across Lance's back, tasting the salt of his sweat, the scent of unwavering trust.

Lance only huffs in response, cut off by a moan as Keith turns his wrist. He's not sure if he should take it as an affirmative or not, so Keith scrapes his teeth over the curve of Lance's ass, making him jolt. In retaliation, Lance floods their bond with sensation, and Keith feels the hot rush of arousal, the spark of _need_ pooling relentlessly in his gut, and all he can manage is a low, “ _Fuck_.”

“Please!” Lance snaps. And it would sound snarky if not for the fact that half-way through the word he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out, and instead of steady his voice is a breathy hiss.

But regardless, Lance is teasing, now, even as he's panting from Keith's attention, and Keith isn't patient enough to draw this out any longer. He carefully pulls the toy from Lance, who lets out a needy whine in response, somewhere between distress and excitement that they're finally moving on with the show. He wiggles his hips at Keith, a soft request for Keith to let go of his hold on Lance's hip.

Keith fumbles with the lube as Lance turns and adjusts himself against the pillows, settling one under his hips and splaying his limbs out in attractive curves.

“C'mere,” Lance murmurs as Keith swipes a slicked hand over his dick and draws closer. “I wanna see you,” he states, and looks into Keith's eyes.

“What... _fuck_ , Lance,” Keith groans as he braces himself and pushes into Lance. Keith drops his head, resting against Lance's collarbone and mouthing absently at his neck.

Lance wraps his legs around Keith, pressing his heels into the small of Keith's back to force him closer, deeper.

 _What do they look like_? Keith asks, because he's too busy panting onto Lance's skin to actually speak. His throat is too dry with want.

“Like—starlight,” Lance chokes out, gasping and throwing his head back against the pillows as Keith bottoms out. “Y-your eyes are s-starlight.”

Keith's breath catches. He feels tears prick against his eyelids, and he wonders why this means so much, but somehow, somehow, it does. Because Keith kissed away the memories of harsh touches on Lance's body, but Lance can't give him back his sight.

“Are you...?” Lance breathes, and his hands slide up Keith's arms to coax him up, thumbs stilling over the jut of Keith's cheekbones. “Oh, Keith. Babe—” Lance's eyes search his gaze, and part of Keith hates himself that he doesn't know how to direct it back at Lance. He hates that despite the fact he can see, he can't _look_.

Lance gingerly traces over Keith's brow with a forefinger, humming a comforting noise. “They're milky, like moonlight through a window at midnight, but they're still yours. They never lost their determination. It's muted, maybe, but you've made up for it in everything else. You're amazing, Keith. Amazing.”

A broken noise emits between them, and it takes Keith a moment to realize he's purring.

Lance smiles, soft, forgiving Keith for that which he has yet to even apologize for in the slight upturn of his lips. “You're gorgeous,” he says, straining up to press a tender kiss to Keith's mouth. “You're gorgeous,” he repeats, breath fanning across Keith's lips. _You're gorgeous_ , he says to Keith's mind, because it rings truer there, and Lance is too busy kissing him to speak now.

Keith feels the wetness slip across his cheeks, knows when the tears pool in the crevices between Lance's fingers, and ducks away to press into the curve of Lance's shoulder again. He's hiding, maybe, because it's all too much. He feels. Feels raw and full, and Lance's hands come to rest over his back, soothing in long strokes.

“Keith,” Lance says into his ear, a whisper of want.

They need this. They need to be overwhelmed. They need to remember how to feel. The Galra tried to take that from him, and then Lance. They tried to take their bond away, right from the start, and maybe that's what terrifies Keith most of all: if Lance had broken, if they'd had him a day longer, maybe, maybe then Keith wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be able to live with himself.

So instead, even if he can't return Lance's gaze, he can see the furrow in his mate's brow, and he wants that gone. He wants Lance happy—or as happy as they both can be when the world seems to be weighing them down into the soft plush of a royal's bed. So through the purr, a constant rumble, he murmurs out some sweet nothing to Lance's skin, and his tongue darts out to follow the words.

Lance hums underneath him, in harmony with the purr for a moment, and then stretches his neck to give Keith better access. Keith laps over the skin, and then latches on, sucking until Lance moans, one hand coming up to thread through Keith's hair.

 _You're so good to me_ , Lance tells him.

Keith's purr stutters with a sharp intake of breath, and he purposefully rolls his hips, slow and deliberate. Careful. They'd both softened some in the past few moments, but with the way Lance arches, pressing into Keith and answering with a grind of his own hips, Keith feels arousal simmer in his blood again. Lance's other hand settles over Keith's shoulder blade, nails curling crescents into his skin.

“Come on,” Lance edges him on, thighs tightening around Keith's waist. His voice is deliciously breathy already, because even through all the emotion they've both been waiting for this for too long. “C'mon, Pretty Boy. Make me feel it. Wanna feel you.”

Keith thrusts into him again, a slow drag that Keith can _definitely_ feel because it's driving him insane, and Lance's breath hitches. _Don't you feel me enough already_? he asks, only half-teasing. His lips are busy marking along Lance's jaw, pressing kisses and nipping gently.

 _Not yet, not ever_ , Lance returns.

It makes Keith's heart swell. He feels like he's going to cry again, but instead he picks up the pace of his hips, pushing into Lance with more force. He manages to get a hand under the arch of Lance's back, and holds him close, pressing their chests together, panting against Lance's neck.

“G-good, so g-good,” Lance says, words punctuated with a groan. “S-so... Just...”

Lance uses his thighs to slow Keith's pace, and then with those same long legs, he manages to flip them over, and Keith groans as Lance sits down hard in his lap, taking Keith's cock in one movement. He shudders, and Keith feels the movement tighten around him.

They're climbing the high together, far sooner than Keith would have expected, but maybe it's because they've been apart, or maybe because their bond is uninhibited. Whatever it is, it has Lance whimpering as he rides Keith, body tensing with each drop. Keith sits up enough to wraps his arms around Lance's waist, to hold him loosely while Lance takes care of them both.

“Th-there,” Lance pants. His hands settle on Keith's shoulders, but as soon as he's found the leverage, he drops one to start working his own cock, thumb pressing into the slit at the same time he drops down and grinds into Keith's lap hard enough to have him crying out.

 _Bite me_ , he demands, so so close to the edge, and Keith can feel it too, the way they play off each other and can barely hold on to any semblance of control.

For a heartbeat, Keith hesitates with the thought that he's not sure if he can take it, the way the bond will pull them tighter together, leave them in a limbo of _mates_ , _mine, mine_. But then Keith curls a fist into Lance's hair and gently pulls his head back to expose his neck, and Lance stops rising and falling on Keith's dick in favor of sensually rolling his hips in a dirty grind that has Keith groaning even as he bites into Lance's shoulder. Lance whimpers, tightening around Keith and then going slack, and a moment later the force of Lance's orgasm floods Keith's mind, and he's feebly trying to hold onto anything as he's swept away in his own.

And as Keith drinks, it keeps them going, both shuddering through aftershocks even though it's a different feeling from the heat of desire. Instead it's warm, a memory or a promise. Keith laps daintily at the blood, feeling every tremor that goes through Lance's body. He's exhausted—they both are—but they're so close like this, and if Keith ignores the world around them, he can almost pretend he can see the treads of fate and family joining their souls together.

 _You're mine_ , his being says to Lance, and Lance curls towards him, still trembling with hazy pleasure. And Keith can't find it within himself to be sad anymore when they're both so contented.

The universe still sits upon their shoulders, but Keith can bear it. The bittersweet of earlier words is gone, replaced by sheer appreciation for the ability to hold Lance, living and warm and beautiful, in his arms as if nothing bad has passed between them.

As if they had done this long ago. As if they'd made different decisions. As if Keith—

“I love you,” Lance breathes out, voice a slow drawl. “I love you, Keith.”

Choking back tears again, Keith manages a soft, broken: “I love you too, Lance.”

It's a joint decision to doze like that for a moment, Keith still inside Lance and their bodies slicked with sweat as Keith lays back against the pillows with Lance cradled on his chest. Except that it isn't really a decision at all because Keith can't distinguish Lance's thoughts from his own. They are one, like this, with nothing between them, both body and mind, and Keith bares all his fears and hopes and dreams to Lance, and to him, Lance does the same.

They're flashes of experience, things that the other will only notice as a universal fact, and not something that had at one point never been from their own memory. But it doesn't matter, because they're together, like this, from now on. Forever. Or however long that is.

They both end up falling asleep, and the rumble through Lance's chest sounds like Keith's purr, and it's definitely not him snoring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: canon-typical violence, praise kink & dildos  
> well one dildo


	19. Night Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I uploaded the last three chapters of this fic in one go. If you've been reading as this fic was being posted, make sure you don't accidentally skip chapters 17 & 18 before you read this one!  
> Thanks for sticking around this long. Writing this has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. Thanks for being a part of it.
> 
> Also: my computer fucked me the first time I tried to upload this chapter, and then proceeded to post it in the wrong place. wheeze. Maybe it's an omen.

“ _Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it... I don't have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me. There are many things to think of. There is much story.”_

\- _The Book Thief_ by Markus Zusak

 

Their hearts lay heavy with the news of Pidge's success in decoding the data from the recent mission. They have a set of coordinates. They have half a plan. They have one team against an army.

It's _not_ hopeless.

But damn if it doesn't feel that way.

Keith is mostly sure Hunk stress-cooked the entire day, because the table at dinnertime is filled with assorted dishes, most of which are the product of ingredients from recent haul on Vel'it. Despite the fact he knows it wasn't Hunk's intention, it feels like the team is walking into their last meal. It's the type of lavish meant for celebration, but when there is nothing yet accomplished, no battle yet won, good cheer turns to a last hurrah.

Lance tilts his head to glance at Keith, a sad smile playing across his features. He squeezes Keith's hand in his, but Keith isn't sure which one of them is drawing strength from the gesture. He squeezes back anyway.

“This looks amazing, Hunk,” Lance says.

“I might have accidentally cleaned out our stocks,” Hunk admits, and wrings his hands together before he catches himself in the nervous tick and drops them. There's a lingering thought that stays unsaid: that they won't need whatever is left in the pantry if they're too dead to come back.

“Hunk, you've outdone yourself,” Shiro says as he walks in the room. “You convinced Allura to stop stressing over strategy and get ready for dinner because we can smell it from the navigation room.”

Hunk manages a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose we should enjoy it, right? Before the big day?”

“I can't believe you made all this,” Keith says, taking in the sheer number of plates. There's probably at least twice as many as people in the Castle, and a moment later, Keith realizes his mouth is watering from the scent alone. “I mean, you've been working with Pidge, right?”

“Yeah,” Hunk replies, with a small shrug, the gesture incongruous on such broad shoulders. “But I didn't ruin my sleep schedule for it, and Pidge is basically nocturnal, and they figured out the last bits at some ungodly time last night. I was asleep. So I didn't do anything today.”

“How is Pidge doing?” Shiro asks.

Hunk tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “They're sleeping in the lounge. Knocked out this morning and I figured it was best not to wake them until dinner.”

“I'll go get them, then,” Shiro offers, and strides from the room.

As soon as Shiro's out of earshot, Lance turns to Hunk. “Are you okay?”

Hunk bites his lip, and then sighs. “This shouldn't feel this much like a goodbye.”

Lance stiffens, and Keith can sense how much the words strike him. He drops Keith's hand to go to hunk, palm settling over his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“You'll make it out,” Keith says, with determination.

Hunk glances over at him. “Have you seen that?”

Keith opens his mouth to reply, and the words stop in his throat, vices on his neck. Has he? The promise flowed through him with such conviction, because that's what made him who he was. He was instinct and emotion, and Red's power was a way to counterbalance that fact, but also locked him into his actions. Everything he does—all because he knows no other solution, even if he's seen the outcome.

“He doesn't need to,” Lance says, sure. “We're gonna go in there, kick some ass, and then finally go back home.”

Keith doesn't miss the longing that fires through Lance at the mention of Earth.

“All of us,” Lance continues. “Can't you see it, Hunk? We can illegally download movies and finish a pizza each in one sitting. Just like we used to.”

Hunk laughs, and wraps one arm around Lance in a hug. “Yeah, sure, Buddy.”

There's an undercurrent of sorrow in his tone. After this, even if they live and get a chance to go home, there is no return to old times. They've seen too much, been through too much. Keith never intended to fall in love. Lance never asked to be tortured by the Galra. Hunk never wanted to learn how to set broken bones with the weight of watching his friends pain on the battlefield on his shoulders.

Lance glances over at Keith, brow pinched in mild concern. Keith tries to keep his thoughts from wandering so much.

“I'm starving,” Pidge announces, sauntering into the room and making a beeline for the nearest chair. Shiro and Allura follow, holding hands as they laugh at Pidge's antics.

Pidge never thought they'd lose their family, never thought they'd lose Matt twice now. Shiro was never ready to be a leader, forced to become a commander before he'd even legally had his first beer. Allura inherited a war, tasked with the impossible, and she didn't have a choice.

But the rest of them did—and regardless, they chose this. This is who they are.

This is Voltron.

Not the weapon, not the robot, or the lions. It's this: the team, the friendship, the everlasting bonds of experience and pain and happiness found in quiet moments between battles. It's soft touches of comfort and good food after a hard-won fight, and the gratefulness for another day in which they're all _okay_.

Coran enters, looking forlorn. He opens his mouth to say something, and then glances at Allura and promptly shuts it, moving to take a seat far away from the group at the large table.

Well, Keith supposes, _okay_ as they can be, at least.

Shiro and Lance glance at each other and awkwardly move to sit down, another compliment on Hunk's looking dryly falling from Shiro's lips and landing on deaf ears. Keith moves to hover near Lance's chair, but he can scent the tension in the air.

Allura, across from Keith, stands tall and proud, an angry set to her shoulders, but then she takes in a deep breath and lets it go. She presses her lips together, and then, in graceful movement, takes a chalice from the table and fills it with whatever wine-like substance Hunk managed to get. The sweep of her dress follows her movements as she walks, steps sure, to Coran's side.

Allura drops into an elegant bow, hair fluttering as it follows the action and dress billowing around her. She presents the wine before her with extended hands, like a prayer, asking for forgiveness.

“ _Father_ ,” she says, and her head bows in a sign of submission.

And Keith realizes, to some degree, that there must be an issue with translation, because Lance quirks an eyebrow, questioning, and mouths _master_?

But instead of a call for intimacy, a play on Altean familial structure, all Keith hears is _sicar_. _To live and die searching for what you love_ , Keith had said to Lance once, and he realizes that this is that same devotion in the way Allura drops all pretenses of royalty to kneel at her mentor's feet. To offer him the first serving of the table in a placating gesture of apology and forgiveness in equal measure.

Coran takes in a sharp breath, somewhere between a shocked, happy gasp and a disbelieving sob. His fingers shake as he takes the chalice from Allura's hands, placing it only barely gently on the table, before he's standing and swooping Allura up with him. Instantly, Allura wraps her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder right where she must have done a thousand times before.

“I don't deserve you calling me that,” Coran whispers to the crown of her head.

“No,” says Allura softly. “But I'm doing it anyway, and that's what matters.”

Coran pulls away, hands sliding to Allura's shoulders to hold her in front of him. He studies her expression, and must find something there, because his gaze softens, emphasizing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Alfor would be unbelievably proud of you. They all would have been, had things been different.”

“Had things been different, they would not have something to be proud of me for,” Allura returns with a sad smile.

“They would have had _you_.”

Allura's facade begins to crack, and Keith can tell the way she's blinking back tears. “Let us eat,” she says. “Father, join us.”

Coran traces the back of an index finger across her cheek, fond. “I would be honored.”

Allura's high laughter is something sweet, tinkling bells of relief and chimes of kindness. She leads Coran closer, before settling herself next to Shiro at the table.

“So,” Shiro says, breaking the silence. “Dinner?”

“Is that a green light on digging in,” Pidge mutters, gaze wandering across the table.

Hunk starts filling their glasses with the same wine-like liquid Allura had poured for Coran. “We should say something,” he suggests.

“Speeches?” Lance asks. “I think that really might feel too much like an ending.”

Before Hunk can answer, Coran swipes the wine from where he'd been sitting and raises the glass in the air. “A toast,” he proposes, “To Voltron. To new beginnings.”

Lance stands up, scooting his chair back, and throws his arms in the air, glass raised high in one hand. “To us!”

“To fighting another day,” Pidge adds, before reaching across the table to grab something that might be a roll of some sort and eating half of it in one bite.

“To Altea,” Allura pipes in, grinning wide.

“To friendship,” Hunk says. “To family. To those we left behind.”

“To a better tomorrow,” Shiro contributes, and then all eyes at the table fall to Keith.

Keith swallows, sees the expected gazes, and feels pride swell in him. They've made it this far. Quietly, he speaks:

“To love.”

With trembling fingers, unsure of a future they might not have, they each raise their own chalices.

“To love,” Lance repeats, and then they all tip their heads back.

 

 

 

The sight of Blue taking off into the vacuum of space next to Red is a comfort to both Keith and his lion. Lance's whoop of anxious exhilaration comes in loud over the comms, and Keith huffs a laugh in response.

“Everyone good?” Shiro calls.

“All set,” Pidge announces.

“Wormhole ready in two ticks,” Allura informs them from the Castle. That's the plan, at least: sneak the lions in close with a wormhole, and the Castle of Lions will follow up with reinforcements and to cover the getaway. No one wants to stick around when an empire collapses.

The collateral damage will be indescribable.

“Okay, okay,” Hunk says, rushed. “I just want you guys to know, just in case we all die, that I love you all.”

“They won't get _all_ of us,” Lance says. “But I love you too, bro.”

“We're making it out,” Shiro states. “We all are.”

Keith carefully keeps his dread from leaking across the bonds with the team.

“Catch you on the flipside, Princess,” Pidge quips.

Keith doesn't know what to say. He's not sure if there's anything he can do to help ease the tension in his bones, so he keeps his mouth shut, and nudges Red forward to follow Black through the opening wormhole.

A flash of color in his mind's eye—Red groans around him, metal and mechanical. She's showing him something.

The crack of a whip, though no pain follows.

A cry.

Snippets of conversation: “Useless. Brat. Worthless.”

Tidbits of speech, from the same voice, one that grates against Keith's brain: “You're so beautiful. So pretty. Unique. If you were stronger, perhaps Zarkon would love you.”

There's a sharp growl, pained and animalistic. Keith recognizes it, not in the voice, but in the meaning behind it. It's the sound of someone driven to the breaking point, and suddenly the vision erupts in full view in his mind, a gift from Red in the form of knowledge.

Lotor, back bare and bleeding, hunched over in a room Keith remembers too well, snarls viciously. The fire in his eyes as he looks to Haggar is all-consuming, and he rears up, hands blazing with power enough to rip the chains on him from the wall. He looks down at the Altean fire in his palms, and then coldly meets his mother's gaze.

“I am not your toy to break, and I am not father's pet. If you want my power, then you'll give me the respect I am due.”

Haggar has the decency to look shocked for a moment, and then her expression softens, though her lips curl up into a wicked grin. “Yes,” she purrs. “You've done well.”

Lotor looks taken aback. “You—you planned—you made me and you don't have the heart to raise me?”

“No,” says Haggar, stepping forward and dragging a claw across his cheekbone. “But you were never my child, Lotor. You were a tool. But I do have the heart to teach you. And I have the heart to turn a blind eye when you will inevitably seek revenge from those who hurt you in the ranks.”

Lotor presses his lips together, a thin line of memory: passing whispers of his fair looks, body too weak to fight against the hands that grabbed him, an empire taught to take by his father's twisted methods and twisted mind.

“Fine,” he growls. “Teach me everything.”

“Keith,” Shiro's voice rings through the vision, dragging Keith to the present. “Are you okay?”

“I'm... fine,” Keith manages.

 _Something happened_ , Lance's thoughts flow like water towards him, refreshing in their presence even if they're laced with concern.

 _Red showed me something_ , Keith tells him.

In the distance, a Galra ship looms, easily ten times the size of the standard fleet ships they often run into in battle. Keith feels his throat tighten.

 _This is it, little brother_ , Lotor's voice rings in his head, unbidden but present. Red hums around him, conflicted and nervous and excited all at once. It must be her, Keith realizes, letting them communicate through her bonds with both of them, and part of him sparks with a dark jealousy that Red is willing to pass on Lotor's messages. But he trusts her, and his life has never really been his own. He's always belonged to someone: first the Galra, then Shiro and Red, and now Lance, and perhaps soon to be Zarkon's.

 _You know your time has come_ , Lotor echoes ominously.

“We're going to need someone to go in a take down the main shield. We need people on the inside,” Pidge is saying. “I can try and hack it, but they'll see us by then. We'll be overrun.”

“I'll go,” blurts Keith.

“Not alone,” Lance says instantly.

 _What are you planning_? Lance asks.

Keith shakes his head. “We need you on the outside, Lance.” _I need you to be safe_.

 _Both of you_ , Lotor advises. _He'll know it's a trap, but the two of you will be too good of a prize to pass up. I'll convince him._

 _Shut up_ , Keith snaps at him, unintentionally broadcasts it to Lance too.

“Keith,” Lance warns. “What's going on?”

 _I'll keep him safe_ , Lotor says. _I promise. You know how this must end._

Keith pointedly refuses to respond.

“We should keep one of you here,” Pidge says. “To communicate. I'm not sure how—”

“No!” Keith cries, louder than he meant. “I—we'll go together. Lance should come with me. We work best together.”

“Keith,” Lance pleads again. _Tell me what's happening_.

 _Trust me_ , Keith tells him.

He feels Lance hesitation, knowing Keith is hiding something, but then he sends a resounding: _I trust you_.

“Keith, Lance,” Shiro says. “Go in. Try to find a way in. If you get caught, feign surrender or betrayal. Let Lance do the talking, Keith. Try to keep yourself on the down-low. They might believe the druid's tech finally turned Lance against us.”

“Got it,” Keith echoes.

“Okay, okay,” Hunk says. “We can do this.”

“Yeah we can!” Lance cries, though Keith can feel his trepidation.

“Hunk, follow me,” Shiro orders. “We'll see how much damage we can do at the borders until we see the shields go down. Pidge see if you can cloak and get close. Help Lance and Keith where you can but don't give yourself away.”

“On it,” Pidge says. “Comms going off. Good luck, guys.”

“You too,” Hunk says quietly, before Green flickers into invisibility.

“Let's go,” Lance says, and pushes Blue forward. Keith trails after him in a slow glide, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. “Turning off my comms.” There's a click as he's gone, and then Keith follows suit.

 _Maybe we should have had a better plan_ , Lance's thoughts drift towards him.

 _We couldn't know what to be prepared for_ , Keith tells him.

 _We have you_ , Lance says.

Keith shrinks back in his seat, even though Lance can't see him. _I... I'm not..._

Lotor is stubbornly quiet in response.

 _I love you_ , Lance interrupts, because he realizes Keith doesn't have an answer. _Just in case_.

Keith can't help the sense of distress at the finality of it, but Lance is right. He'd rather have this last goodbye than nothing at all. _I love you too_.

 _Ships noticed us,_ Lance informs him, directing Blue to a halt. Red pauses next to her. _I gotta focus_.

Keith withdraws his thoughts as much as he can, but the nagging curiosity of wanting to know how things were going prickles across his skin. He waits, holding his breath, as if focusing on that will make time tick faster, until he can hear Lance in his head again, a constant comfort. But some part of him also wants time to stop—he doesn't want this unknown ending—he wants Lance to stay his and safe and loved forever.

 _You're cute when you're worried_ , Lance tells him. _I got us in. Flawless acting skills_.

Keith snorts out of instinct, and he gets the distinct feeling Lance is laughing at him as they pull forward with the lions, now flanked by two Galra ships.

 _He knows it's a trap_ , Lotor's voice suddenly bursts into his mind. _But he's willing to take the chance. Stay on your guard._

When the tractor beam from Zarkon's ship picks them up, Keith was half expecting it, but that doesn't stop him from instant recoiling from the force of it. Red groans, a sad noise, and shudders under the pull. It's at Keith's soothing that she stills and submits, but he can still sense her displeasure, contrasted darkly with the smug satisfaction from Lotor at the thought of Red being so close within his grasp.

 _Easy_ , he seems to say.

 _Well_ , Lance muses. _I suppose this is one way to infiltrate_.

 _Lance_ , Keith sends him, because he doesn't know what else to do as the fear begins to set in his bones and the ship looms ahead of them, ever closer. _Lance, you're my everything_.

Lance's confusion sparks across his mind, soft, gentle.

 _I'm going to make the bond as weak as I can, because I don't know what they're gonna do to me and I don't want to make you suffer_.

Lance's thoughts stick on one thing: _to me, to me_ , not _us_.

 _I'm staying with you_.

 _No_ , Keith tells him. _You aren't_.

Anger, sharp in love, in concern. He cares, so much. Keith's heart aches.

 _Ready_? Lotor quips.

 _Keith, you fuck_ , Lance snaps. _Keith, whatever's happening, don't—you're not doing this to me again_.

And Keith feels tears sting the corners of his eyes. He wishes he could lie to make the truth less painful. He wishes he could say something like “You die if you come with me, I've seen it,” because that would be enough to dissuade Lance. But this, this fear of changing the future, settles hard in Keith's body, twisting his insides, and at his core, he is selfish. Because he wants Lance to be safe. Safer than he will be inside the ship.

Away from Lotor. Away from Zarkon. Away from the memories of torture.

 _Be careful, Lance_ , Keith tells him instead. _Please_.

 _You have no right—_ Lance's thoughts cut off abruptly.

Blue's tractor beam flickers, and then suddenly she's gone, bolting.

Lance's outrage is harsh on Keith's conflicted mind, because Blue isn't responding and his lion betrayed him, too. But while Lance might not be able to see what lies ahead, Blue trusts Red unfailingly. She knows to listen to Red's guidance.

 _You better fucking come out of there_ , Lance's venom comes like a stab at Keith's heart. _Promise me, you're coming back. I came back for you. You can't just leave me like this Keith_.

Keith takes in a deep breath. _I will try_. _Help the others_.

Something dark crosses his mind, but not from Lance. Lotor's distress is an obvious warning from Red, but Keith doesn't have enough time to fight against the beam. He's already being taken into the ship, and Red fights against the hold to no avail.

And then, as Red is subdued into a mechanical statue with Galra tech, Keith is forced from her cockpit, and he tumbles out in a heap to the metal floor, cold under his palms.

“Well,” drawls a voice, commanding and deep and far too familiar than Keith would like.

Before him, Zarkon stands tall, suit broadening the cut of his shoulders. At his feet, kneels Lotor—not in submission, but in punishment. His hair is fisted in Zarkon's hand as he's forced down to his knees, shoulders shaking with exertion as he glares down, lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. Keith slowly gets to his feet.

“It's nice to have my two favorite sons here, together,” Zarkon booms. He throws Lotor's head down, a fluid movement that is followed by a kick to Lotor's shoulder, shoving him over. He regards Lotor coolly, and then turns that icy gaze to Keith, uncaring. “Take them both to the arena. I'll keep the one that lives. We need a new Champion.”

 

 

 

There's no prep time, no warning, and no chance for Keith to get himself together before he's plunged into the arena. He and Lotor are both unceremoniously dumped into the pit, expected to fight, as if they could hate anyone other than Zarkon at this exact moment. The stands are mostly empty, except for a few clusters of Galra here and there, and Zarkon sits at the forefront on one side.

_Keith._

Lotor collects himself first, pulling himself up to his feet and setting his shoulders. He draws his blade, the scimitar curved and deadly as he points it at Keith. “Get up,” he orders. “And fight.”

Keith pulls his bayard up but doesn't activate it. “We don't have a reason to.”

Lotor's brow pinches. “Put on a show. It'll be worse for us, otherwise.”

“There's no one here,” Keith protests, though he does stand.

Lotor looks surprised—and then, perhaps, looks surprised that he is surprised. “The lights—how—oh. Right. That.”

“Yeah,” Keith deadpans. “'That.' Quintessence isn't fun.”

Lotor takes a step closer, and Keith backs up one in response. “I wouldn't know,” he says softly. “They never used it on me. I'm Altean, we have far more than one Galra lifetime. Taking the time to heal was fun contrast to the other half-breeds. To watch me suffer through broken bones and a torn body days after they'd tortured me.”

Keith's honestly not sure if he should be envious.

 _Keith_.

“You're Altean,” Keith echoes. “It would make you powerful. If we could get some—”

“As if,” Lotor interrupts with a snort. “Call your weapon. He doesn't like a Champion who plays with their food with chatter and not claws.”

“And if I refuse?” Keith asks, ears pinned back against his head.

Lotor regards him with distaste. “I'll kill you. I won't particularly like it, but I will.”

“Do you need incentive?” calls Zarkon from above them.

Lotor's mouth slips into a barely prim smile, canines poking out against his lips. “I told you to play along.”

“The red lion,” Zarkon begins conversationally. “Has never been willing to work with me. She is too temperamental. But she is bonded to both of you, I know, and would be a mighty prize for the winner.”

Keith feels his blood run cold, bartering Red as if she were a trophy, an object, and not the friend Keith has come to know and love. But he can see the way Lotor's eyes glint at the thought of finally being able to control Keith's lion. He's tasted her power, and wants more, because he, too, thinks Red is a prize, not a deity.

Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he get that Red has never truly been Keith's? All of this, up to this fight, some terrible end, perhaps, has been at her direction. She's been toying with their lives since she found them, influencing and intervening to aim for some greater goal, for better or worse. But even in Lotor's empathy in being half-Galra, he still doesn't understand. He's only been taught to be a tyrant.

They've only ever been pawns. Red was forced to grow up, to care for the other lions when Black was too broken to help them after Zarkon's betrayal. She's been playing this game for a very, very long time now.

But Lotor doesn't know that history, and Keith sees the moment the greed takes over his expression, turning it dark.

_Keith._

There's a split second where Keith thinks he won't be able to get his bayard up in time. And really, he shouldn't have been able to, but the clang of Lotor's sword catching on his is a ring in his ears, over the sound of his headband. He shouldn't have made that block, but he did.

Because Lotor is pulling his attacks.

Just play along.

So Keith pushes back, then ducks away from Lotor's next swing, a wide arc that really doesn't reach its full potential because Lotor doesn't extend it completely. On purpose. Keith splits his hook swords into each hand and steps back into a defensive stance. He doesn't get it, either, he realizes. Lotor has no reason to keep him alive.

Lotor could kill Keith, play along with Zarkon's plan until the perfect time to strike, and by then he'd have Red.

“Why wouldn't you?” Keith spits, angry at the fact he doesn't understand.

 _You fuck, stop ignoring me_. _I know something is happening_.

Lotor hesitates. “What?”

“Why won't you kill me?” Keith demands.

Lotor stares for a moment, and then averts his gaze, tongue darting out to wet dry lips in a nervous tick. “That—”

“Red showed you visions,” Keith says. “You've seen me, alive, past this. You won't kill me because you're too afraid of changing it, too.”

Keith sees the muscle in Lotor's jaw work.

“It doesn't matter,” Lotor snarls. “Just fight.”

And then he lunges, a swift movement that has Keith scrambling backwards to avoid the blow. Lotor's scimitar glances off the guard over Keith's knuckles. The clang of metal rings loud and earth-shattering between them. Another attack, another dodge, and then Keith sees his opening. With a quick step Keith manages to catch Lotor's leg in the hook of his sword and pulls.

Lotor goes down hard, lands on his back. Keith scrambles forward to press a knee to Lotor's wrist until he gives and drops the sword. The movement of Lotor's throat as he speaks brushes against Keith's blade.

“It's not just Red,” Lotor says softly. “It's Black, too. I know what my father did to them. I know what he's doing. I know it's not going to work, and—if I had been your place, or you in mine, our roles would be switched. You do not want to kill me as much as I do not want to kill you, for the same reasons.”

“I don't understand you,” Keith says, and then, in a growl: “I'm not you.”

Lotor tilts his head, just slightly, in a curious move, and presses his own skin into Keith's sword, enough to cut his own flesh. The scent of blood hits Keith instantly.

“Things could be very different,” he says.

_Keith, Keith. We're coming for you. Hold on. Be safe, be safe._

“But they aren't,” Keith replies.

Lotor surges up, and Keith goes sprawling.

“No,” Lotor says, standing over Keith as he catches his breath. “No, they're not.”

“Any day now,” Zarkon drawls from above.

“Another day,” Lotor says, and when Keith raises his swords, they're suddenly flung away from his hands by a flick of Lotor's wrist. “But you knew that. You always knew.”

The hilt of his scimitar connects in a dull thud against Keith's head, and pain blooms across his senses.

Without sound, there is nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith wakes with a start, legs tangled in a ratty blanket on a cot in a shack in a desert, far, far away from where his dreams had just taken him.

The light of the setting sun feebly attempts to reach him through the window curtains, and Keith tries to slow the beating of his heart. Sitting up, he looks down at his hands: pale, human, nails bitten down to the raw. His muscles still burn with strength they have not yet gained, because Keith isn't a paladin. Not yet.

That all changes tonight.

Everything Red has shown him over the past nineteen dreams has culminated to this. Except that's not quite right, either. Everything Red has shown him _begins_ with this.

And Lotor was—will be?—right. Things aren't different. They aren't going to be. Because Keith, for all his bravery and confidence, is still scared. He doesn't know how it all ends. He doesn't know if he lives past that battle with Lotor. He doesn't know if they ever save the universe. He doesn't know if he _should_ try to change the outcome.

But he fears that if he does, he'll pick the wrong choice. He fears that if he does, he'll cause a worse end to it all.

So when Allura, in less than a day's time, will tell him that Red requires a Paladin that _relies more on instincts than skill alone_ , even she doesn't know the whole story.

Because Red doesn't need a pilot that relies on instincts. She creates one.

She forces their hands. Makes them slaves to the future that only they know. And fear—fear is what keeps them from making any other choice than the ones that, at their core, feel _right_.

Keith closes his eyes, revels in the fact that his sight isn't limited. That he can pick and choose that which he wants to see. That the colors of the dusk are beautiful and real, and that this is the last time he'll ever be able to see them.

His gaze falls to the jacket slung over the back of a rickety wooden chair. On the coffee table, there's a bandana Keith intends to use as a mask. It's rudimentary, but will have to do since he doesn't want to impair his sight whatsoever. He wants to drink in all that he can while he still has the privilege.

Before him is a choice.

But no, there really isn't.

Because doing anything other than slinging his jacket over his shoulders, tying the bandana around his neck, and stumbling out into the ever-darkening night towards his speeder doesn't sit well with Keith. It doesn't feel _right_.

So Keith checks his bags, makes sure he has everything he needs.

Takes one last look at the horizon.

Tonight, it won't be empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: hints of abuse/noncon
> 
> Some other notes:  
> \- Shiro knew Keith wasn't strictly human when he took him in, but he didn't realize Keith was Galra (after knowing what the Galra were)  
> \- Lotor is part of the BOM, though the BOM is a different group in this than in canon. Instead they are a resistance group in favor of usurping Zarkon from power but not actually dismantling the Galra Empire completely  
> \- it's not explicitly stated but Hunk's bayard upgrades are triggered by him saving Pidge  
> \- Zinnias (the flower) don't actually mean morning star. In Altean translation (aka my bullshit lore), this is how the words work out, but actual zinnias mean the following, depending on the colors: thinking of an absent friend, goodness, lasting affection, or daily rememberance  
> \- Coran explains most of this, but: Zinnia was pregnant w/ Allura before marrying/mating Zarkon. When Zarkon found out, he was willing to let it slide bc it was before they got together, but once the pregnancy went south and left Zinnia weak/dying, that's when he turned against Altea, blaming Alfor for the damage done to his mate since Altean/Galra children are very rare bc either the child dies or the mother does.  
> \- Lotor, meanwhile, is from a surrogate mother. Partly because Haggar in this fic is not into dicks in the first place and probably wouldn't touch Zarkon with a ten foot pole, but also because Altea/Galran half breeds are so risky. Lotor wasn't the first attempt.
> 
> I definitely would not have been able to finish this fic without some of the other awesome things that inspired me. So credit where credit is due:  
> \- hardlynotnever.tumblr.com (specifically the art of Lance with tattoos/markings down his back)  
> \- This House Unfinished, an absolutely stunning Klance fic by boyghosts  
> \- Borrasca, one of the most impressive, well-written, completely fucked short stories I have ever read in my life in the nosleep subreddit. Please go read it. It would fuck you up. I'm still not okay.  
> \- The Arrival, a movie about linguistics and aliens and please watch it I love it a lot  
> \- Mabinogi. Because if Hunk isn't an Alchemist skillset then I don't fucking know what he is.  
> \- Fablehaven. Haggar with Revenant fear? Haggar with Revenant fear.  
> \- This picture (watching for noncon NSFW): https://peachesandcreampies.tumblr.com/post/159326601999/lotor-held-down-by-random-galra-being-used-and


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